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PEOSE AND POETRY. 



CHARLOTTE 1. S. BAKNES. 



I Tvrit, because it araased me. I corrected because 
it -was as pleasant to me to correct as to -write. 
I published, because I -was told I miglat please 
sucb. as it was a credit to please." — Pope. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
PUBLISHED BY E. H. BUTLER & Co. 

1848. 









Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1848, 

Bt Charlotte M. S. Barkes, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District 
of New York. 



King & Baird, Pnnbers, 9 George St. Philadelphia. 



PREFACE. 



The courtesy due to the public before whom this 
drama now first appears in print, demands some 
preface. Although a play, which has been per- 
formed more than fifty nights in the United States, 
and in London and Liverpool, and which has been 
elaborately criticised, (on either side of the Atlantic,) 
as an acting drama, requires little introductory com- 
ment. On its first representation, in New York, in 
November, 1837, (after which it was carefully 
and laboriously revised,) the ^^ extreme youth of 
the actress and authoress," and the interest attached 
to her parents' name, were important agents in its 
reception and in its subsequent successful career in 
the United States. That it was so well received in 
England, divested of these aids, was a result far 
more accordant with my wishes than with my ex- 
pectations. 



IV PREFACE. 

Most of the leading incidents of the play, viz : — 
Castelli's desertion of Octavia, his subsequent mar- 
riage, and also hers, the challenge, the slander, the 
murder at Octavia's instigation, her death, and that 
of Bragaldi, occurred in the city of Frankfort, (Ken. 
tucky,) in 1825. The false marriage of Octavia, her 
father's history, Rossano's confession, etc. are inter- 
polations of my own. The real Octavia expired 
before her husband, who was taken to execution 
while sinking under his self-inflicted wounds. 

To these well-known facts alone am I indebted. 
My delineations of the characters of the three pro- 
minent personages in the play, differ widely from 
the descriptions I have heard of the originals. The 
events, when related to me, on the scene of their 
occurrence, made a vivid impression : besides their 
dramatic fitness, they admirably illustrate the futile 
and lamentable results of revenge, even under cir- 
cumstances which in the world's opinion serve in 
some degree to palliate it. 

The little explanation necessary to the other con- 
tents of this book, will be appended to their several 
subjects. 



PREFACE. V 

In the laconic quotation selected, (I trust, without 
presumption,) as ray motto, I have, in better words 
than my own, explained my motive for introducing 
these fruits of girlhood and womanhood's leisure, to 
the reading public. From the Ark in which it has 
long rested in security, I now send forth my unpre- 
tending volume ; which, after it has passed over the 
wide waters of criticism, will, I hope, bring back to 
its mistress the olive branch of Peace. 

c. M. s. B. 

JVewj York, 1847. 



CONTENTS 



OCTAVIA BrAGALDI ', OR, THE CONFESSION 

Dedication, 

Persons of the Drama, 
Act First. — Scene First, 

Scene Second, 

Scene Third, 
Act SecoITI). — ^Scene First, 

Scene Second, 
Act Third. — Scene First, 

Scene Second, 

Scene Third, 
Act Fourth. — Scene First, 

Scene Second, 

Scene Third, 

Scene Fourth, 
Act Fifth. — Scene First, 

Scene Second. 

Scene Third, 
Fugitive Pieces, 
Introduction, 
The Night of the Coronation. — Victoria I., 
The Dead Geranium. — A domestic incident. 
An Address, spoken on the return of the Georgian 

teers from Florida, 
The Forest Princess, or two centuries ago. 
Introduction, .... 

Persons of the Drama, 



Volun 



9 
11 
12 

13 

16 

25 

32 

38 

51 

62 

66 

78 

82 

89 

91 

95 

99 

102 

119 

121 

123 

135 

140 
145 

147 
149 



Vlll CONTENTS. 


First Period, 1607.— Act First— Scene First, 




Scene Second, 




Scene Third, 


Second Period, 1609. — Act Second — Scene First, 




Scene Second, 




Scene Third, 


Third Period, 1617. — Act Third — Scene First, 




Scene Second, 




Scene Third, 




Scene Fourth, 




Scene Last, 


Appendix, 


. . 


The Heart ? or the Soul ? 


. 


Introduction, 


. 


The Maiden Aunt, a Tale of Texas. 


Chapter I., . 


. . . . 


Chapter II., 


. 


Chapter III., 


. 


- Chapter IV., 


. 


Chapter V., 


. 


Chapter VI., 


. 


Chapter VII., 


. 


Chapter VIII., 


. 


The Sisters, a Tale of the 


Mississippi. 


Chapter I., 


. 


Chapter II., 


• 


Chapter III., 


. 


Chapter IV., 




Chapter V., 


. 


Chapter VI., 


. 


Chapter VIL, 


. 


Chapter VIIL, 


. 


The Marriage Vow, a Tale 


OF Florida. 


Part I., 


. 


Part II., 


. 


Part III., '. 


. 


First and Last Love, 


. 


Conclusion, . 


• . . . 



TO 

MY DEAR FATHER AND MOTHER, 

THIS TRAGEDY 

WAS OBIGINALLY DEDICATED, 
AS A TRIBUTE 

OF 

GRATEFUL RESPECT AND FERVENT AFFECTION. 

" New Tork, 133" 



1»* 



OCTAVIA BRAGALDI. 



PERSONS OF THE DRAMA. 



Erstesto, Count di Castelli, Kinsman of the Duke of Milan. 

AXBEKTO LaKIKI."! 

TEBAtDo Orsani' y Nobles. 

Cosmo Loredano.J 

Francesco Bragaldi. ^^H 

GlUlIAN. 7 „. , . ^^H 

-_ <• His domestics. "^^K 

LiTIGI. J '^^H 

Officer. ^^^V 

c Castelli's attendants. I 

Carxo. 5 » 

Courier. 

Marco. 7 n 

> Fages. 

PlETRO. J 

Nobles, Ladies, Pages, Guards. 
OcTAViA Brag AID I, Francesco's wife. 
Clorinda, Francesco's sister. 

ScEBTE. — Milan supposed to be at the close of the fifteenth 
century. 

Time of the Action, comprised in three days and nights, 
and the ensuing morning. 



In the absence of adequate law, public opinion generally gives 
to a request the force of a prohibition. I therefore respectfully 
request all managers and actors not to perform either of the 
plays contained in this volume, for three years from this date. 

At the same time, I do myself the very great pleasure of ex- 
pressing my sincere acknowledgments to those ladies and gentle- 
men whose professional labours in the Theatres of England and 
America, have so greatly aided my efforts, and contributed to the 
success of my two dramas, and have been so justly recompensed 
by the applause of their auditors. 

Chahlotte M. S. Conner. 
New York, June, 1848. 



OCTAVIA BRAGALDI; 

OR 

THE CONFESSION, 
A TRAGEDY FOUNDED ON FACTS.' 

" Mixed characters, such as in fact we meet with in the world, 
afford the most proper field for displaying, without any bad effect 
on morals, the vicissitudes of life ; and they interest us the more 
deeply, as they display the emotions and passions of which we 
have all been conscious. When such persons fall into distress 
through the vices of others, the subject may be very pathetic ; but 
it is always more instructive when a person has been himself the 
cause of his misfortune, and when his misfortune is occasioned by 
the violence of passion, or by some weakness incident to human 
nature. Such subjects both dispose us to the deepest sympathy, 
and administer useful warnings for our own conduct." 

Kames' Elements of Criticism. 



ACT FIRST. 



SCENE FIRST. 



An Jipartment in BragaldVs Mansion near Milan. 

Enter Giulian, Meeting LuigL 

Giulian. 
Is all prepared for our master's return ? 

Luigi. 
It is. In truth thou art a careful steward. 

Giulian. 
I should be so. Our gentle mistress thinks me 
worthy of the trust ; and it is such happiness to 
serve her and to win her smile, that were my office 
ten times more laborious, I would perform it joy- 
fully. 

Luigi. 
And our fellows share that thought with thee- 

When will our master return ? 
2 



14 OCTAVIA BRAGALDl ; 

Giulian. 
Since last night we expect him. He has now 
been absent, as I think, some fifteen days. Our 
lady mourns each moment of his stay. 

Luigi. 
"Why did she not go to court along with him } 

Giulian. 
In truth I cannot say, unless it be that she doth 
love this mansion best. 'Tis strange that one so 
happy and so young should dwell so much secluded. 

Luigi. 
Thou know'st I am as yet a stranger here. Tell 
me, doth our master descend from noble ancestry ? 

Giulian. 
From ancestry ennobled in their deeds alone. 
For scores of years they have been held in high 
esteem by all the Milan nohles, who ever honour 
merit ; but to titled grandeur our master can lay no 
claim. 

Luigi. 
Does he love my lady ? 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 15 

Giulian. 
Ay, indeed ; though they have been wedded now 
four months, 'twould seem they had not yet ended 
their honeymoon ; their love knows no abatement, 
nor will, I trust, for many years to come. {Look- 
ing off.) But here is our master's sister, the gay 
Lady Clorinda. 

lEnter Clorinda, and Exit Luigi. 

Clorinda. 
How now, good Giulian, where's my sister? 

Giulian. 
In the west chamber. Madam, she watches for 
our master's approach amidst the thick shades of the 
neighbouring forest. 

Clorinda. 
How happy is my brother in her love ! 
Giulian, thou long hast lived beneath his roof; 
Thy youthful locks have silvered in his service. 
He calls thee not his servant, but his friend. 

Giulian. 
Madam, the welfare of my Lord is as dear to me 



16 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

as my own life's blood, and I rejoice to see him 
wedded unto one whose heart is pure, whose nature 
noble. 

Clorinda, 
And withal impassioned and devoted. 
All girlhood's budding freshness she retains — 
A child's simplicity, a queenly soul. 
To please Octavia is my only wish. 
Haste, Giulian, to the farthest turret, — there 
Thou mayst discern thy master's coming, while 
I go to seek my sister. 

[^Exeunt Clorinda and Giulian. 



SCENE SECOND. 

Another Apartment, 

\_Enter Octavia. 

Octavia, 
Not yet returned ! what can have thus delayed him ? 
Fie, fie, Octavia, be again thyself! 



I 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 17 

Let me be calm, and still this beating heart 
That aching throbs with hope and fear. 

[Eiiter Clorinda. 
Clorinda ! 
Say quickly, sister, is Bragaldi come } 

Clorinda. 

No ; eagerly I've watched on yonder turret 

Since earliest day-break, but 't is all in vain. 

Some unexpected cause must have detained him. 

The road is long and perilous, 't is true ; 

But then his armed domestics follow him. 

Thou hast no cause for fear, in truth, Octavia. 

What ! mope and pine, because thou art a wafe, 

And count each moment that thy lord's away ! 

Trust me, so would not I. 

Octavia sits dejectedly, gazing at a cross which 

she wears. 

Come, cheer thee, sister. 

That jewel, (pointing to it) — 

Was my brother's gift — his first, 

think thou told'st me ? 

2* 



1° OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Octavia. 

Ay, it was his first, 
And since that day it has not left my side 
A single hour. 

Clorinda, smiling. 
Oh ! what constancy ! {Examining it. 
The fashion on't is strange and ancient too ; 
I doubt if Milan holds another like it. (She sits. 
Remember'st thou a merry tale, like those 
Which often have, since dear Francesco's absence, 
Enlivened the long dreary nights, that else 
Had been so full of loneliness ? 

Octavia. 

Oh no! 
Thy list'ning eagerness exhausted soon 
My memory's little store. 

Clorinda, 'playfully. 

I'll not release thee. 
I ask no poet's legendary tale 
Of knights and ladies, pilgrims and crusades. 
No ; tell n[>e one all faith and tender truth ; 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 19 

(It will beguile the weary, anxious hour ;) 
Tell me a tale of love — thine own, Octavia. 

Octavia, 
Mine ! 'Tis, alas ! a history of wo, — 
A trite and oft-told tale of woman's love. 
I would not sadden thy young spirit — yet — 

Clorinda, 
Is't melancholy then ? 

Octavia. 

Listen, I pray thee. 
I was an infant when my mother died 
And left me to a father's care. Thy dear 
Francesco was my childhood's friend ; the wars 
Soon called him forth, a youth. — Ere sixteen years 
Had shed their glowing radiance o'er my head, 
The Count Castelli sojourned near our dwelling. 
While maids of rank, and dazzling beauty too, 
Vied for his love, he knelt and sued for mine. 
He won my girlish fancy, but my father — 

Clorinda, 
Did he oppose your love ? 



20 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Odavia. 

He did ; he bade me 
Renounce one called by fame a libertine , — 
I disbelieved it all — Castelli sued — 
We fled together from my father's home. 

Clorinda. 
Oh fatal error ! 

Odavia, 
Ere we fled, at eve, 
(No vi^itness save a girl who lately died,) 
A priest pronounced the words that made us one : 
We fled to Milan. Ere a week had passed 
I sighed once more to see my aged father, 
Implore his pardon and receive his blessing. 

Clorinda, 
And didst thou then succeed ? 

Odavia, 

My father came, 
I yielded to the impulse of my heart — 
I flew to him ; in tearful supplication 
I clung — I prayed for pardon — ^long in vain. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 21 

At length his heart did melt ; when, as he blessed me, 

The fearful agony of this sad meeting, 

The deeper anguish of his lengthened search, 

O'ercame his aged, fast-decaying frame ; 

A shudder chilled his heart, and with a groan 

He fell upon the earth, before my eyes! 

He never rose again. 

Clorinda. 

Alas! Octavia, 
E'en while he pardoned, and was blessing thee ! 
How bitter was thy sorrow then ! 

Octavia^ starting up. 

In mercy 
Name it not, — oh ! name it not ! A life 
Cannot efface the memory of that hour. 
At first Castelli tended and consoled me. 
But when, amid his soothing words, my heart 
Refused all comfort, soon he spoke unkindly, 
And then declared I wearied him with grief. 

Clomida, 
Sure man can ne'er be guilty of such baseness. 



32 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI J 

Odavia. 

My heart soon learned the hoUowness of passion 
Love's certain grave's indifference, contempt, 
Cold, biting sarcasm, that chills affection 
Sooner than anger, hate, or cruelty. 
At length Invasion's dread alarum sounding, 
He joined the forces, and repaired to battle. 

Clorinda. 
Didst thou go with him to the wars ? 

Odavia. 
With eagerness I sought to share his danger, 
But wearied by my presence once so loved, 
At night, in secret, he deserted me. 
Frantic I flew to seek for him — in vain ; 
A friendless stranger, houseless, penniless, 
I asked no mercy but to die unknown. 

Clorinda. 
E'en though thou say'st it, I can scarce believe 
So sad a history is thine, my sister. 

Odavia. 
'Twas in this misery thy brother found me 
On his return, and bore me to my home. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 23 

Clorinda, 
And heard you naught, Octavia, of your husband? 

Odavia. 
Yes, ere a year had passed, the news arrived, 
(Too fully proved) that he had died in battle. 

Clorinda. 
And no farewell, no token sent to thee ? 

Octavia, 
None ; none. Five years of grief and prayer passed on; 
And soon thy brother told me of the love 
Which, like a lonely flower, he had reared 
Amidst the wintry gloom of war and battle. 
He called up all the golden memories 
Of childhood's happiness, that had entwined 
Their fond and clinging grasp around my soul: 
He asked my hand, and with my heart I gave it. 

Clorinda. 
And with no vain regret for thy first lord ? 

Octavia. 
No. Six long years had proved their Lethean skill 
To deaden girlhood's wild and giddy fancies. 



24 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

The dream of passion past, I saw a mortal, 

Erring, nay heartless, — in my former deity, 

And in thy brother I beheld a being 

Whose love, for which a queen might humbly sue, 

And glory in entreaty, was all mine, 

His first, his only love, — his chosen bride ! 

Clorinda. 
Then thou wert blest in happy virtuous love. 
May thy past woes end all thy mis'ries here ! 

Octavia. 
When thou didst leave a convent's holy walls 
To come and dwell with me, I would have told 
My story to thee then, — but my loved lord 
From day to day, in kindness still delayed it. 
Now thou know'st all, pity me — pray for me ! 

\_Enter Giulian, 

Giulian. 
Madam, my master's now dismounting at the portal. 

Octavia. 
Returns in safety ! 

Clorinda. 

Holy Virgin, thanks ! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 25 

Odavia, 
Now haste to give him welcome. 

[Exit Giulian. 
Fly, Clorinda, 
A moment's pause will still these thoughts of wo. 

[Exit Clorinda, 
Oh! would kind Heav'n from recollection chase 
All bitter grief, my future life might be 
Worthy of him for whose dear sake I live ! 
Away at once with this unthankful sadness ! 
Oh ! let me haste to clasp him to my heart, 
And in his love forget all former sorrows ! 

[Exit Odavia. 



SCENE THIRD. 

The Hall of Entrance to Bragaldih Mansion, Giu- 
lian, Luigi, and other attendants precede Bragaldi 
and Alberto, All the attendants ^ except Giulian, 
Exeunt. 

Bragaldi to Alberto. 
You're w^elcome to my home. Methinks my heart 



26 

Doth beat more freely as I breathe this air, 
And tread each path wherein Content doth dwell 
With Happiness, two old and constant friends. 

lEnter Clorinda. 
My gentle sister! — Greet our cherished guest. 

Clorinda. 
My brother's welcome needs no aid from me 
To make its value greater ; yet, my lord, 
Your coming doth enhance the joy we feel 
At seeing him again. 

Alberto, 

Fair maiden, T 
Should be most happy, could my fancy deem 
Those courteous words sprung truly from thy heart, 
Not from thy lips alone. Say, is it so ? 

( They confer, 

Bragaldi. 
Behold ! with light and eager step she comes, 
The angel of this earthly paradise ! 

[^Enter Ocfavia. 
My own Octavia ! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 27 

Odavia. 

Welcome, my husband ! 
Welcome to thy home ! What cause hath thus — 

BragaldL 
An accident befel my steed, Octavia ; 
I could not leave him on the road to perish. 

Octavia. 
No more ? I feared — in truth I know not what. 
Affection ever thus, amid its own 
Real bliss, creates imaginary wo. 

Bragaldi. 
But see, our guest. {Pointing to Alberto.) 

Octavia. 
E'en like the Persian wife 
I saw but one form when I entered here. 

Alberto and Clorinda advance. 
To Alberto. 
Deem it no lack of courtesy, my lord, 
That I was thus unmindful of thy presence. 
I pray thee pardon me, thou'rt truly welcome. 



28 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

Alberto. 
Affection's impulse ne^er need ask for pardon. 

Bragaldi, 
I bring thee joyous tidings from the court. 
The demon War doth rest ; — unless he should 
Start up again, after a brief repose, 
With giant wrath, — my gentle bride, no fear 
Need shade thy heart that I should hence be called 
To shed my blood in Italy's defence. 

Alberto. 
And more than this, I bear a mandate, lady, 
By thee with cheerful haste to be obeyed. 
While Milan's Duke returns with glory decked, 
All hearts pour forth in gratitude to meet him. 
But in the gay masque and the mirthful dance 
Wherewith the Duchess graces his return, — 
Amid her lovely and attendant train 
Of fair Ausonia's dames, the eye of fame 
Hath marked thy absence, and my lips are charged 
To woo thee from thy peaceful solitude. 

Bragaldi. 
I know thou seest few charms in courtly pomp ; 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 29 

But thou art yet too young to play the matron. 
Wilt thou consent awhile to leave thy home ? 

Odavia. 
Ever with thee and ever as thou wilt. 

To Clorinda. 
Thou goest too. 

Clorinda, 
May I indeed believe thee ? 
How best, my dearest sister, shall I thank thee ? 

Odavia, 
By being happy. Go, my own Clorinda, 
And bid them spread the cheer. These wayfarers 
Need other welcome than our words can give. 

Clorinda. 
I haste to do thy bidding. 

[Exit, followed by Giulian, 

Alberto. 

I am proud 

Indeed that thus my mission has succeeded. 

This very day we'll bear thee back in triumph. 
3* 



30 OCTAYIA BRAGALDi; 

An instant now, I pray, excuse me friends. 
I fain would seek my weary steed, that oft 
Amid the war, undaunted and untired, 
Hath borne me safe. — I'll join you soon again. 

Bragaldi. 
Thou'rt erer kind and thoughtful. As thou wilt. 

\_Exit Alberto. 
Once more I gaze upon thy face, and hear 
Thy gentle voice, sweet index of thy heart. 
Absence, Octavia, gives a double zest 
To all the quiet, flowing joys of home. 

Octavia, 
My brave Bragaldi ! I have much to tell : 
Trifles indeed, to all but those who love. 
Each little breeze that stirs the rivulet 
And makes it dance with joy, would pass 
Unheeded o'er the ocean's vast expanse. 

Bragaldi. 
How anxiously I've sighed for my return ! 
It seemed the lagging councils of the state 
Were lengthened only to detain me there. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 31 

I've equalled thy impatience. 

She appears to deny it. 

Dost thou then 
So dearly love me ? 

Odavia. 

Canst thou doubt it? 0! 
Before we wedded, woman's own reserve 
In conscious silence bade me hide my heart. 
But now thou art my own, my lord, my husband, 
My pride and glory centre in thy love. 
My only joy's to live on earth with thee — 
My earnest prayer, that we may die together — 
My fondest hope, that when our lives have ceased, 
United we may meet hereafter ! 

[Exeunt Bragaldi and Odavia. 



END OF ACT I. 



32 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 



ACT SECOND. 



SCENE FIRST. 



The Garden of BragaldV s Mansion in Milan, 

Enter Alberto and Clorinda conversing, 

Alberto. 
I grieve that I must say farewell, sweet maid. 

Clorinda, 
'Tis pity that you've stayed so long in vain. 
My brother most sincerely will regret 
His absence to attend the Duke's command, 
For he hath marvelled at not seeing you. 

Alberto. 
Thou needst not doubt necessity alone 
Compelled my absence. There's a charm around 
Bragaldi's home that lures me to it ever. 
Know'st thou the charm I mean ? 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 33 

Clorinda, 

The peaceful love, 
The music of their happy lives that flow 
In harmony, — all these are charms — 

Alberto, interrupting her. 

Nay, peace, 
I pray. Not such as these I mean. Full long 
I've sought Bragaldi's dwelling to behold 
A bright, rich jewel there, unowned as yet, 
Which I would seek to humbly win and wear, 
And worship as my guiding star : thyself! 

Clorinda. 
Such warm and honeyed words I must not hear. 
I pray you let me seek my sister. Going, 

Alberto. Detaining her. 

Stay! 
Though shrinking, pure, and guileless is thy soul, 
As the first budding flow'ret of the year. 
Woman's instinctive nature must have shown thee 
My true, but silent love. May I then hope } 

Clorinda^ smiling. 
Sure more than marble were that maiden's heart 



34 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Who such sweet flatt'ries could hear unmoved. 
Yet I'll believe the speaker is sincere. 
And though a simple and untutored girl, 
Bred in a convent's loneliness, unused 
To veil a thought or wish from other eyes, 
I value such affection as I ought. 
When Time hath laid his seal upon your love, 
(If still you ask for a return from me,) 
The firm devotion of my hfe — my lord, 
What have I said ? I pray you, pardon me! 
Forget those words! This foolish, timid heart 
In seeking to conceal hath told its secret. 

Alberto, 
And made me happiest of the happy. Time, 
Time is my only rival ; and ere long 
I'll tell thy brother of this cherished news 
That fills me now with joy, with fervent rapture. 

Kissing her hand, 

Clorinda, 
Behold, the Lord Orsani. 

[Enter Tebaldo, 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 35 

Tebaldo, 

Pardon me 
That I intrude thus hastily, fair maid ; 
I came to seek Larini : an affair 
Of state is my excuse. No less a cause, 
Believe me, could — 

Clorinda. 

Excuse, my lord, is needless ; 
My brother is from home ; but in his stead, 
From me receive your welcome. 

[Exit Clorinda. 
Alberto. 



Now, Orsani, 



Why come you thus in haste ? 
Tehaldo. 



Know you the news ? 
Jilherto. 



Of what ? 



TebaUo. 
A deputation has arrived ; 
And we are called to council with th^ Duke. 



36 OCT AVI A BRAGALDi; 

4 Alberto, 

Know you the import of this embassy ? 

Tehaldo. 
In sooth I do not. Say, what meant the crowd 
I saw but now assembled near the prison ? 

Alberto. 
To see one doomed this hour to suffer death. 
He is a soldier wild and rude, whose sword 
In private broils hath oft shed gentle blood. 

Tebaldo. 
His name ? 

Alberto. 
Rossano. And the Duke hath sent 
'Tis said, to summon to the cell, Bragaldi. 
I hear this soldier hath made strange confessions ; 
Upon what theme I know not. Time will show. 

Tebaldo. 
You've known Bragaldi long ? 

Alberto. 

I have, indeed ; 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 37 

And knowing, have revered him. Proud and noble, 

He, when a boy, as I remember me. 

Was formed all dignity and truth. His word 

Was ever sacred, and he gloried more 

In the unblemished honour of his name 

Than doth our Duke in his bright diadem. 

His sense of shame, integrity impeached. 

He held so exquisitely vulnerable. 

That calumny or censure undeserved 

Would send the angry blood into his cheeks, 

Lend fire to every word, and prompt his arm 

To silence the accuser. But if thwarted. 

On that one insult w^ould he feed alone, 

(When e'en the author had forgotten it,) 

And on the offender's head, when fortune favoured, 

He'd vent his fierce, but noble indignation. 

Tebaldo. 
A faithful chronicler ! 

Alberto. 

He is no man 



38 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

Who does not honour virtue in his friend, 
And seek to make it honoured by the world. 

Tehaldo. 
Do not forget your duty in your zeal : 
We shall not hear the deputation. Come ; 
The Duke expects us now. 

Alberto. 

This way, my lord. 

Exeunt Alberto and Tebaldo. 



SCENE SECOND. 

Odavia^s Apartment in BragaldVs Milanese Man- 
sion, Octavia and Clorinda discovered seated. 
Clorinda embroidering. 

Clorinda. 
Say, sister, what so long detains my brother ? 

. Octavia. 
I know not; 'tis some business of great weight. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 39 

Clorinda. 
But nothing sad, I hope, to him or thee ? 

Odavia. 
None, none I trust ; and yet I'm eyer fearful. 

Clorinda. 
Do not despond. Thou hast had thy share of wo. 

Odavia. 
The measure is not full, I fear, Clorinda. 
Leave but a single avenue unguarded 
By which one guilty thought may reach the heart, 
Though all around be deemed impregnable, 
'Twill enter there, 'twill gain despotic sway, 
And like all tyrants, steep in lasting sorrow 
The once pure kingdom over which it reigns. 

Clorinda. 
Thy first, thy only fault was disobedience ; 
That error too did spring from love alone. 

Odavia. 
No ; call it passion or idolatry ; 
Such words best paint the cause of all my wo. 



40 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Love, gentle, pure, and calm in its security, 
Such as I bear unto my noble husband, 
Is like the sun's heat breathing on the soul, 
Warming and fertilizing. But wild passion, fierce, 
And e'en idolatrous, is but the desert whirlwind 
That scorches and destroys. 

Clorinda. 

IMy sister, 
Such holy love I fain would hope is felt 
By one who this day breathed his vows to me — 
The Lord Larini, who would ask — 

A step heard. Who comes ? 

Octavia, looking ojff-. 
Bragaldi. See, there's anger on his brow. 
Leave us, I pray thee. {Exit Clorinda. 

Sure some dreadful cause — 
[Enter Bragaldi. 

Bragaldi, to himself. 
Ye raging thoughts, sink deep into my soul. 
Revenge can ne'er be gained ; cease then to tear 
And rack me thus, thou craving fiend ! 

Pacing to and fro in great agitation. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 41 

Octavia. 

Bragaldi ! 

Bragaldiy to himself. 
And must I chill the warmth of innocence, 
And make her wretched ? No, I will be silent. 

Octavia, advancing to him-. 
Francesco ? Art not well ? What sad mischance 
Hath thus disordered thee ? 

Bragaldi. 

'Tis nothing, 

A trifle scarcely worth a name. 

Octavia, gazing steadfastly at him. 

No more? 

Bragaldi, 
No more, indeed. — Why shouldst thou doubt ? 

Octavia. 
Nay, seek not to dissemble thus with me. 
No artifice can blind my eye. Thou'st heard — 
Thou hast — ay ! on my life ! some fearful news — 
Appalling news to stir thee thus. I am 
Thy wife to share thy wo, as well as joy. 

What is't ? 

4* 



43 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

Bragaldi. 

'Tis vilest falsehood Thou shall know it. 

While I was here with thee, a summons came, — 
Thou heard'st it too, 't was from the Duke and 
council,) 

That I might hear a criminal's confession, 

Unasked for, — offered by the slave himself. 

Two courtiers, by the Duke's command, were pre- 
sent. 

The wretch was once a follower of Castelli. 

Odavia. 
Castelli ! how I tremble ! Speak, Francesco ! 

Bragaldi. 
Before the nobles, he unasked, confessed 
That thou, Octavia, who for years didst dwell 
In poor, but honourable widowhood — 

Octavia. 
Say on ! 

Bragaldi. 
The bare remembrance stifles me ! 
That thou, Octavia, my life's cynosure, 
Castelli's widow, ne'er had been a wife. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 43 

Octavia. 
Merciful Heav'n ! 

Bragaldi. 
Yes, he confessed, Octavia, 
That for a heavy bribe from Count Castelli, 
He had assumed the holy father's office, 
And their foul arts together had deceived thee. 

Octavia. 
Father ! thou art avenged ! 

Bragaldi. 

At first I deemed 
'Twas a forged tale ; enraged I seized the wretch 
For the base lie, and dashed him to the earth. 
As he lay trembling at my feet he still 
Related it again, and loudly called 
On all the saints to witness 'twas the truth. 
That now when ignominious death was nigh, 
Amid his torturing remorse for this 
And other darker deeds, he sought to make 
Atonement for his guilt. 



44 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Odavia, to herself. 

Castelli's mistress ! 
Then my betrayed affection was their jest ; 
And when I sought a husband's kindest care, 
"I was regarded as a whining mistress 
Whose power to charm her tears had wiped away- 
A tedious fool to be cast off at pleasure ! 

Bj'agaldi. 
Wherefore that look of sudden wild alarm ? 
Why dost thou tremble thus ? 

Odavia, rushing to him, 
Francesco, 
I was deceived — was guiltless of this crime. 
I knew^ it not. As I do hope for mercy, 
I swear I knew it not ! Falls on her knees. 

Bragaldi. 

I never doubted ! 
I know thy truth. The villains both are dead. 
Let not their guilt a moment cloud thy peace. 

Nay, rise. 



1 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 45 

Odavia, 
Thou dost not doubt me then ? Thou think'st 
Vm worthy of thy name ? Thou lov'st me still ? 

BragaldL 
Fondly as ever ! 

Odavia. 
Bless thee ! Heaven bless thee ! 
In thought, in deed, the life and soul of honour, 
My brave Bragaldi ! — Should the world revile — 

Bragaldij raising her. 
Here is thy shelter in a husband's arms. 
No tongue dare whisper 'gainst Bragaldi's wife. 
Be happy then ; away with tears ; forget 
Thy grief: whene'er the malice of the world 
Assaileth thee, seek thou thy refuge here ! 
But see, our kind Alberto comes this way. 

Enter Alberto, hastily. 
Odavia retires to conceal her agitation. 
Welcome, Alberto. 

Alberto. 
Thanks. J am now in haste, 
And only come to greet thy gentle wife, 



46 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

And tell the wondrous news. She advances. 
How fare you, madam ? 

Odavia. 
In sooth, not well. In this gay city here, 
I'm like a caged bird, and sigh for home. 

Bragaldi, 
What is this news ? 

Alberto, 
I scarce have time to tell, 
For state affairs now call me back to court. 
'Tis briefly thus. — The unexpected news 
At which all tongues cry «« wonderful" is this : 
A noble warrior, whose early death 
Our armies long have mourned, still lives, 'tis said 
Wounded, a prisoner, in the foeman's power 
For years he languished, till, exchanging captives. 
We learned that Count Ernesto di Castelli — 

Odavia gasps, suppressing a shriek. 

Bragaldi. 
Almighty Heaven ! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 47 

Mherto, 
Supporting Octavia, who is fainting. 
Thy lady faints, Bragaldi ! 
Here lend thy aid ! 
Bragaldi hastens to her. Alberto brings a chair in 
which they place her as she revives. 
Madam, how fare you now ! 

Bragaldiy supporting her. 
Octavia, speak to me ! Thou need'st not fear — 

Octavia, hastily interrupting him. 
A momentary weakness — but 'tis past, — 
The — noontide heat. — Look not so sad, Francesco ; 
Thy face is but the mirror of my own. 

Bragaldi. 
Aside. Be still my just revenge. — 

Aloud to Alberto. Does he then live ? 

Alberto. 
He! Who? 

Octavia. 

The Count — the subject of the tale 
Which rudely we have interrupted.— Say, 
Does — Count Castelli live ? 



48 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Alherio. 

Ay, so 'tis said ; 
But till our Duke can truly learn that 'tis 
No artifice our foes have framed, he still 
Must dwell a brief space in captivity. 

To Odavia. 
Thy shrinking form tells me thou still dost suffer. 
I will withdraw ; my presence brings restraint ; 

To both. 
I am your friend. Treat me not as a stranger. 

[Exit Alberto. 
Bragaldi. 
Burst from thy shackles now, my pent up rage ! 
Hear'st thou, Octavia ? the base traitor lives. 
In equal combat yet this arm may reach him. 
Yes — he who plunged thy youth in misery — 
Deserted thee in poverty and grief — 
Blackened thy pure name by his fiend-like art, 
Still lives, — and lives for dire punishment. 

Octavia. 
What wild and threatening words are these, Bragaldi? 
Heav'n grant the tale be false ! But e'en if true. 



OR, THE CONFESSION." 49 

Let not that spectre of departed woe 
Rise up again to haunt our happy home ! 
It cannot be that our sweet dream of peace 
And bliss so soon must end. 

Bragaldi. 

Let that rash foe 
Who wakens us, beware ! 

Odavia. 
Bragaldi ! Husband ! 
Howe'er indignant rage may urge our hearts, 
Remember — in his hopeless, long captivity 
He hath received most ample retribution. 
Look on me ! — ^Nay, not thus, but with thy fond 
And wonted gaze, oh, smile once more upon met 

Bragaldi. 
Thy love can conquer all. I will be calm. 
No hate shall crush our peace ; but, once assured 
That justice may be gained, I will assert 
A husband's privilege 't avenge thy wrongs. 
And shelter thee from all impending ill. 

\_Exit Bragaldi. 
5 



50 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Octavia, 
All's lost ! My hopes destroyed ! My earthly peace 
For ever blasted by that slave's confession. 
I, — who amid my disobedience still 
Did proudly soar in consciousness of virtue, 
A wife — have been the poor dupe of Castelli, 
Who lives — I heard it ? yes ! Oh misery ! 
I will not curse him for my husband's sake. 
Mother of mercy ! If indeed your will 
Would further punish my first error, — oh, 
Spare him who loves me ! Let his honest heart 
Be free from agony ! — his age from shame ! 
On me alone let fall your deadly shafts, 
And I will bless their just, though with'ring wrath ! 

Retires, and casts herself upon a chair, resting her 
hands upon the table, and burying her face in them. 



END OF ACT II. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 51 



ACT THIRD. 



SCENE FIRST. 



An Apartment in CastelWs palace, hung with heraldic 
devices and warlike trophies. 

Casielli speaks within. 
Do as thou wilt — Lorenzo, 

Casielli enters richly dressed, followed by Lorenzo. 
Bear to Lord Loredano this reply : 
We will attend his festival to-night, 
And speak our thanks for his prompt courtesy. 

[Exit Lorenzo. 

Enter Tehaldo. 
Welcome. 

Tehaldo. 
My noble lord, thou see'st me here 
To add my greetings to the gen'ral joy 



52 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

With which all Milan welcomes your return. 
To what surprising cause may we ascribe 
Your coming ? For this very morn we learned 
You languished in the dungeons of the foe. 

Castelli, 
Briefly I'll tell thee all, my friend. When last 
I left my home, a year I dwelt amidst 
The din of camps ; till at one fierce affray, 
When left for dead upon the battle-field, 
A peasant staunched my wounds and bore me home. 
Beneath his roof my wasted strength returned. 
The anxious hours passed in vain endeavours 
To reach my country's troops, who, as I heard 
Were then retreating with their lessened numbers. 

Tebaldo. 
By what misfortune did thy efforts fail ? 

Castelli. 
My messenger was captured by the foe. 
Whose armed bands discovered my retreat. 
And cast me in their dungeons, doomed to pass 
In solitary torture, the ripe noon 
Of an ambitious life that dawned in glory. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 53 

Tehaldo. 
Most fearful doom. Death were a blessing to it. 

Castelli. 

For near five years I pined within their cells. 

But our brave Duke soon forced the enemy 

To own, that when they triumphed over us^ 

'Twas chance, and not their valour, that prevailed. 

To rescue back some captives of high rank, 

I was restored to light ; but while my fate 

Hung doubtful on the deputies' success. 

The noble prince Alfonso, our ally, 

Offered a ransom of such matchless price, 

My foes cupidity no longer wavered : 

I was released — was free ! and in the month 

That since hath waned, my benefactor's daughter. 

The fair Vitellia, hath become my bride. 

And not alone her beauty did she give, 

But her kind parent with her golden dower 

So heaped my coffers, that I doubt, Tebaldo, 

If e'en the Duke himself can vie in splendour 

With me, the Count Castelli. 
5* 



54 OCTAVIA BRAGALDl ; 

Tehaldo. 
Joy to you ! 
Your treasures now will life your power far 
Above the reach of that proud censor, who 
Commands the homage of our gaudy court. 
By his abundant riches. 

Castelli. 
Say, whom mean you ? 

Tehaldo, 
Th' untitled noble, as our gay gallants 
In mockery term him, for the honour and 
Respect which all ranks pay. — Bragaldi. 

Castelli. 
Ah! 
Francesco ? Tehaldo assents. 

What ? Is he still living ? 

Tehaldo, 

He lives esteemed and honoured by the Duke. 
He's wedded too. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 55 

Castelli, 
Indeed? To whom ? 

Tebaldo. 

To one 
Of humble birth, 'tis said, now called by fame 
Peerless : Octavia Velti. 

Castelli. (To himself.) 
Mighty Heaven ! 
I hoped e'er this a convent or the grave 
Had shrouded her from every living eye. 
She lives ! and wedded ! Can she yet have learned 
She never was my wife ? 

Aloud. Where do they dwell ? 

Tebaldo. 

A few miles from the city, but the throng 
And bright array detain them now at court. 

[Enter Lorenzo. 

Lorenzo. 
The princess bids me say it is the hour 
At which Lord Loredano gives his feast. 



5(5 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

Castelli. 
I come. [Exit Lorenzo. 

Tebaldo, you will join us there ? 

Tebaldo. 
I will. Till then farewell, my lord. 

Castelli. 

Adieu. 
[Exit Tebaldo. 
Wedded ! in honour wedded, and to Mm, 
Whom e'en this moth doth praise ! We soon must 

meet 
I fear. — So let it be. Away regret ! no tongue 
Shall ever triumph over Count CastelH. 
One object — Power ! One feeling — vast Ambition ! 
Alone shall urge or stir my passions now. 

[Enter Carlo. 

Carlo. 
My lord, a stranger here would speak with you. 

Enter Bragaldi, (richly dressed for the fostival,) 
and exit Carlo. 

Castelli. [Douhtingly. 

A stranger ! sure I've seen — 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 57 

Bragaldi. 
My lord Castelli ! 

Castelli. [Assured by the sound of his voice. 
Bragaldi ! 

Bragaldi. 
You recognize me ? 

Castelli. 

Ay, I do ; 
Although time in his onward course hath changed 
The youth's smooth face to man's stern lineaments. 
"What would you with me ? 

Bragaldi. 

I'm Octavia's husband, 
You are Castelli — I have spoke my errand. 
Your new won grandeur, borrowed from your wife, 
(For I have learned that you are nobly wedded,) 
Avails not here. I ask that reparation 
Insulted pride demands from man to man. 

Castelli. 
What mean you ? 



58 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Bragaldi, 
That your hired slave, Rossano, 
The trusty agent of your hellish scheme, 
Dying, confessed it unto me this day. 
When by deceit and art you robbed Octavia 
Of her untainted fame, her only treasure, 
You snatched from mem'ry's cheerless waste forever 
The one green spot that she could call her own, 
On which her eye might rest amid the ills 
Of this dark world, and all her heart you left 
A parched and barren wilderness. 

Castelli. 

Bragaldi, 
I cannot now repair the wrong. 

Bragaldi. 

'Tis true, 
Most sadly true. You never can recall 
The blessed days of youthful innocence, 
When she was happy as the warbling birds 
That charm us with their song. 'Tis true, you ne'er 
Can give her back unblemished rectitude 
Nor take from her the shame she feels e'en now 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 59 

For her unworthy love. You cannot pay 
Her o'er six years in sorrow wasted, nor 
Raise from the grave her doting, aged father, 
And teach his lips to bless her once again. 
All this you cannot do, but you can give 
Revenge ! I'm here, the champion of my wife. 
Strong in a husband's dignity and honour, 
I challenge you to combat ! 

Castelli. 
How ? Bragaldi — 

Bragaldi. 
Accept my offer, or be deemed a coward ! 

Castelli. 
Coward ! — That threat is impotent and vain. 
I am no coward, as the trophies tell 
That now adorn these old ancestral halls. 
All Milan knows and can attest my valour. 
This arm hath crushed my country's foes too oft. 
To tremble at the coward's brand. My rank 
Forbids that I should fight with thee. 



60 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Bragaldi. 
Thy rank ! Is it not blackened and disgraced 
By withering a maiden's hopes ? Vain worm ! 
Thy rank ! Defend thyself, — or lo ! my sword — 

Castelli. \After a pause. 
Be calm, Bragaldi, or thou dost a murder. 
My weapon still is sheathed. 

Bragaldi. 

Once more reflect — 
If thy base heart demands reflection here ; 
By all the fire and restless energy 
That actuates thy bold aspiring manhood — 
By that ne'er-glutted appetite for blood 
Which most men share in common with the tiger — 
By deadly hate, such as we bear each other— 
Again I call thee forth, or dread my rage ! 

Castelli, 
Thou canst not injure me. 

Bragaldi, 

Proud man ! 'tis true, 
I cannot open lay thy soul 'mongst men. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 61 

And make them see the heartless wretch thou art ; 
But thou wilt meet thy punishment. The power 
Who guides the zephyr and the hurricane, 
Will hurl his fearful doom upon thy head 
E'en at the height of all thy guilty splendour. 

Castelli. 
Cease this vain conflict. Thou hast heard my answer. 
As strangers let us dwell. Pursue revenge 
No more, nor further torture thy wife's peace. 

Bragaldi. 
The thought of her alone restrains my arm. 
Vengeance dies not, though it may sleep awhile. 
Proud man, now tow'ring in the plenitude 
Of power, and shielded by thy lofty rank. 
Beware of my revenge. 

[Exit Bragaldi, 

Castelli, 

Accursed fiends! 
My bride ! Thy rank and dower scarce repay 
The powerless raging of my shackled passion. 
Yet 'twas my sole resource, for had we fought, 
The cause of our combat reaching her, 



62 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

So well I know Vitellia's jealousy, 

My hopes of greatness would at once have sunk 

To ruin. Thou'rt too noble for a murder, — 

I fear thee not, Bragaldi. 

{Enter Lorenzo.) 

Lorenzo. 

Gracious sir, 
The princess waits. 

Castelli. 
I come. Now art must veil 
Each trace of the commotion of my soul. 
Away with hate ; and welcome revelry. 

[^Exit followed hy Lorenzo. 



SCENE SECOND. 



An apartment in BragaldVs mansion. Odavia 
enters, richly dressed for the festival. 

Octavia. 
Not here ! O, sure he never will return ! 
I know too well his deadly aim. Those shouts, 
Those deaf'ning shouts that pierced my aching ear. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 63 

E'en through the walls of this vast mansion, seemed 
To ring my knell. Castelli hath arrived. — 
I hear he's wedded! Oh, could that man wed! 
Could he approach heaven's altar with his bride, 
Solemnly swear to cherish and protect her. 
Without the damning thought searing his brain. 
That those black perjuries he swore to me ? 

Brogaldi, without. 
Octavia! 

Odavia, 
'Tis his voice ! I thank thee. Heaven ! 

Bragaldi, without. 
My wife ! where art thou ? 

[He enters. 

Octavia. 
Thou'rt here in safety ? 

Bragaldi. 
I have seen Castelli. 

Octavia, inquiringly. 
Oh! my husband? 



64 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Bragaldi. 
His arrogance hath crushed my hopes. He hath 
Refused to meet this arm. His rank — (Base worm !) 
Forbids it ! His high rank ! Would I had struck 
Him to the earth ! 

Odavia. 
Oh ! take me, take me home ! 
Quick let us hence and leave this treach'rous court! 



To-morrow, not to-night. We must attend 

The festival of Loredano first. 

I cannot, will not, love, so ill requite 

The kindness of our Duke. To-night I'll speak 

E'en at the feast, my thanks, and say farewell. 

To-morrow we will go. 

Odavia. 

I thank thee, for, Oh ! 
Here there is no peace! And shouldst thou meet 
Again that arrogant and heartless noble — 
Should I lose thee, my only hope, Bragaldi, 
What has this world of comfort left for me ! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 65 

The wrong that's past, is past. The fire is quenched-^ 
Oh ! for my sake then seek not to relume it ! 
If he rest silent, and no longer breathe 
A thought of injury against our peace — 
If he molest us not, let us be dumb. 

Bragaldi, 
Dear monitress, to me thy wish is law. 
Thy pure affection, like a guardian angel, 
Drives from my heart all fierce and bitter spirits. 
It is the hour. We'll attend the feast. 

Odavia, 
The last, I trust, of courtly fantasies 
My eyes will see. Clorinda may remain 
With our kind friend, the noble dame Larini. 
For a brief space at least let sorrow rest, 
Our gloomy frowns must not disturb the joy 
Of that assembly. Come ! 

As she is going, she turns and sees Bragaldi standing 
moodily abstracted. She arouses him. 
My husband ! Come ! 
[Exeunt Bragaldi and Odavia. 



66 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 



SCENE THIRD. 

A splendidly illuminated anteroom^ {in the palace of 
Loredano,) opening by a flight of steps upon an ele- 
vated terrace^ which leads to the garden beyond. 
Moonlight. On one side is seen the entrance to the 
banqueting rooms. Music is heard. Loredano 
enters attended by two pages, from the inner rooms^ 
meeting a few of the later visitors to whom he 
speaks, 

Loredano, 
So my kind friends, though late, you're welcome. 

What? 
Fair madam, you indeed have honored me. 
Will you go join the dance, or wait the banquet ? 

They pass on and Exeunt. Enter Bragaldi and 

Octavia. 
Most truly, lady, I rejoice to see 
Your presence grace these halls. I trust you'll ne'er 
Indulge again the cruel wish of soon 
Retiring from your sphere, our brilliant court. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 67 

Bragaldi. 
Ah ! much I fear your arguments, my lord, 
Will prove in vain. Is't not so ? [To Odavia, 

Odavia. 

Ay, indeed. 
Advances to Loredano, 
I sigh e'en now for my secluded home. 
My fond dependents, and the humble poor, 
Books, music, tapestry, my well-tried friends, 
My sister and my husband, all are found 
Collected near that old and quiet mansion. 
Such happiness is there, I almost deem 
An angel once did dwell beneath its roof. 
And still, for memory's sake, presides above it. 

Loredano. 
Thy sister and thy husband both, are here, 

Odavia, 
'Tis true ; but their beloved and happy converse 
I can enjoy in peace and fondness there, — 
While here, a gay crowd so surrounds us both, 
The whisper of affection scarce is heard 
Amidst the noisy revel. 



68 OCTAYIA BRAGALDi; 

Loredano. 

Gentle lady, 
Could hermits plead in tones like thine, I fear 
All courts would be deserted. 

^Pietro enters from the banqueting room, 

Pietro. 

Noble sir, 
The banquet now awaits your presence. 

Bragaldi. 
We 

Will follow you, my lord. 

Loredano. 

Your pardon then. 
[Exit ^ followed hy Pietro and pages to the banquet. 

Octavia. [suddenly. 

Francesco ! if Castelli should be here — 

Bragaldi. 
Here ! no, Octavia, he arrived since noon, 
He'll not attend a festival to-night. 

As they are goings Marco enters from a private 

apartment. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 69 

Marco, 

Our honoured Duke hath bid me seek you, sir. 
He fain would ask your counsel for a moment. 

Bragaldi. 
I come this instant. \_Exit Marco. 

Octavia, 

I'll remain, Francesco, 
Till thy return, here in this quiet spot. 
Do not detain the Duke. 

Bragaldi, 

I'll not delay. 

[_Exit Bragaldi, 

Octavia, 
Hark! now the merry laugh of thoughtless hearts 
Comes faintly on my ear. Till he returns 
I'll rest upon yon terrace girt with flowers, 
And 'mid the perfume of those shady groves. 
List to the warbHng of the birds, that with 
The sighing breeze forms one continuous melody. 



70 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

She ascends the terrace and seats herself. Enter from 
the banquet Castelli, passionately, followed by Te- 
baldoy Loredano and Alberto. 

Castelli. 
A thousand curses on his meddling tongue 

Loredano. 
My lord, I do beseech you, be appeased ; 
Your agitation, which all eyes observe, 
Destroys the quiet of your anxious friends. 

Castelli. (Pacing to and fro. 
Your pardon ; but my rage will have its way. 
Accursed be the babbling fool whose mad 
Officious prating hath destroyed my hopes ! 

Tebaldo. 
'Tis true, your bride did bitterly reproach 
And threaten to return unto her father ; 
But hearing you once loved Bragaldi's wife, 
You need not wonder that indignant pride 
Thus suddenly o'ercame her. 



OR. THE CONFESSION. 



71 



Loredano. 

I entreat 
You'll now return unto the banquet. 

Castelli. 

Yes. 
I will return. I will not be the gape 

And stare of fools. I will return and prove 
The utter falsehood of that babbler's tale. 

CastellVs loud tones here first attract Odavia^s atten- 
tion towards what passes. She gradually recog- 
nizes him, and risings is about to withdraw, if 
possible, to escape notice, when her ear is arrested 
by the ensuing dialogue. 

Loredano. 
Indeed! Methought the tale was true. 

Castelli. 

I say 
'Tis false — a vile and politic falsehood, 
Told to excite my wife to jealousy. 

Lo7'edano. 
Sayst thou, my lord, it is not true that thou 
Didst secretly, but falsely, wed Octavia ? 



72 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Castelliy passionately. 
Am I — a noble, to be questioned thus 
Like a dishonest slave ? I say 'tis false ; 
I ne'er did wed her — never loved her — no ! , 
I could not love a wanton. 

Alberto. 
How? 

Tehaldo. 
What? 

Loredano. 
Strange ! (Simultaneously. 

Castelli. 
Ay. Though so young, her name was even then 
A scorn and by-word 'mongst the peasantry. 
Could Count Castelli e'er love such a woman ? 

Alberto. 
Most wonderful indeed ! 

Castelli, 

My worthy friends, 
Haste to the banquet, I will follow you. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 73 

During these lines, Alberto, Tebaldo, and Loredano 
exeunt rapidly to the banquet. Castelli pauses to 
reflect. 

Yes ; that's the plea ; I could not love a wanton. 
As he is going, Odavia rushes down the stage. 

Octavia. 
Great Heav'n ! will thou not strike the liar dead ! 

Castelli, after a pause. 
Avenging fiends ! Octavia ! can it be ? 
That face — that voice — 'tis she! and she hath 
heard — 

Octavia. 
Is it a dream ? Did I indeed hear those 
Dark words ? Oh, let me drive away the thought ! 

{Perceiving Castelli. 
He there ! 'Tis true — 'tis horrible reality ! 

Castelli, aside. 
I feel so conscious of my guilt, I dare 
Not stir ; and yet — should some one come — I 

must — 

7 



74 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Odavia. 

Hold, slanderer ! Stay, and hear her you've de- 
stroyed ! 

You've crushed my heart, and worse, disgraced my 
fame. 

And I should curse — 't were just ; but be a man ; 

Revoke the foul aspersion, and I pardon. 

Castelli. 
Revoke it ! 

Odavia. 
Ay ! take back the fest'ring lie, — 
For such it is as thy foul heart doth know. 
To those who heard the falsehood, say 't is false, 
And I will pardon thee. 

Castelli. 

It is in vain. 
I cannot now retract. 

Odavia. 

Drive me not mad! 
Stay, sure my wildness angers thee. Then hear 
me! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 75 

He turns, and for the first time meets her eye. A 

pause. 
With shame I own it, thou didst love me once, — , 
Deceive — desert me ! We've not met since then ! 

{She falls at his feet. 
By all the memory of thy broken vows — 
By all the misery those vows have cost me— 
By my poor aged father's broken heart — 
(Broken by thee ! — ) I do implore — 

CastellL 

Peace — peace ! 

Octavia. 
I, here, a wife to one all honour, sue 
With tears and prayers as warm and far more true 
Than those with which thou once didst kneel to 
me — 

If, in thy long captivity, remorse 

E'er touched thy soul — if thou art not all fiend — 

Not for my sake, but for my husband's, hear me ! 

Castelliy relenting. 
I may not listen, or my long-framed plans 
Will fall beneath her tears. Let me begone. 



76 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Octavia. 
Thou hast a wife, who, being wedded, guards 
Her husband's fame ; were she, like me, reviled — 
For her sake, hear me. 

Castelli. 
Rushing past her. No! Away! Away! 

Octavia, Starting up\ 
Art thou a demon ? Have I bent my knee, 
Forgot the honour of the name I bear, 
Bragaldi's wife — and sued to thee in vain^ 
Thou heartless marble ? 

Castelli, 

Nay, to grant thy prayer 
Were death. Vain are thy tears ! 

Octavia ! falling 07i her knee. 
Then hear my curses ! 
May thy wife's fame unjustly be destroyed. 
And thou be scorned, unable to refute 
The falsehood ! — Oh, may children bear thy name 
And break their father's heart, as I for thee 
Broke mine. May ev'ry plague, save madness, 
haunt 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 77 

Thee ! Mayst thou pray, like me, for madness, as 

A blessing ! May death, though sought, long shun 

thee, 
And when he doth approach bring ling'ring anguish 
Great as the pangs that torture my brain now ! 

v3 pause. Bragaldi speaks within. 

Bragaldi. 
Now with your gracious leave I'll seek my wife. 

At the sound of her hushandh voice, Odaviaj shriek- 
ing his name. Jails senseless. At the same mo- 
ment 

Castelli exclaims. 
Bragaldi's voice ! He comes ! Away ! Away ! 

[Castelli rushes out. 

Bragaldi enters from within, and is going towards 
the terrace, when, seeing his wife. 

He exclaims. 
What can this mean ? Octavia ! 

And as he is raising her from the ground, the 
curtain falls. 

END OF ACT III. 

7* 



78 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI 



ACT FOURTH. 



SCENE FIRST. 



An Apartment in CastelWs Palace. 

[Enter Castelli and Tehaldo. 

Castelli. 
Then here we say good night, Tebaldo, while 
I thank thee for thy zealous friendship, thus 
With speed to bring these welcome news. In truth 
The favours, wherewith our Duke hath graced me, 
Demand my earnest gratitude. 

Tebaldo. 

It is 
Unto your bride these thanks are due, my lord. 
Her father's int'rest at our ducal court 
Is such, that for his sake, whate'er she asks 
Is granted instantly. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 79 

Castelli. 

Her father is 
Indeed my steadfast friend. 'Twas well I learned 
The falsehood which that empty fool had told her. 
Her indignation was so fierce and bitter 
I feared I could not sooth it. 

Tehaldo. 

You succeeded, 

And I rejoice to hear it. Yet 'twas strange ; 

Had other lips than yours pronounced the words 

I should have deemed them slander. 

Castelli. 

Doubt them not. 

Tehaldo. 
But tell me, fear you not Bragaldi's wrath? 
He keenly feels affront, and may revenge — 

Castelli. 
My lofty rank doth raise 'twixt him and me 
A bar which e'en his wrath cannot o'erleap. 
And foiled in honourable vengeance, he, 
In deep seclusion, with his loving wife. 
Will hide his anger from the world. Good night. 



80 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI ; 

Tebaldo, 

Adieu, my lord ! 

[Exit Tebaldo. 

Castelli. 

How now ! who waits ? 

[Enter Lorenzo. 

Lorenzo 
My servants need not wait without. Affairs 
Of state demand my care. I go not forth 
To-night. You may retire. 

Lorenzo. 

I obey. 

\_Eddt Lorenzo. 

Castelli. 
Oh guilt ! didst thou not thrive so well, it were 
Beneath me to descend to such a scheme. 
'Tis a base lie I told against Octavia, 
Who ne'er indulged unholy thought or wish, 
Whose virtue forced me to deceive. Well, well: 
Remorse is vain — retreat impossible ! 
The falsehood uttered, I must now maintain it. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 81 

[Enter Lorenzo. 
Lorenzo. 
Gracious sir, a courier from the Duke. 

Castelli. 
Admit him straight. 

[Lorenzo shows in the Courier. 

Courier. 
Giving papers to Castelli, 

My lord, these from his grace. — 

Castelli, {after examining them turns to Lorenzo.) 
Retire to rest; let none remain attending. 
I would be private. 

[Exit Lorenzo. 
To Courier. This way, follow me. 

[Exeunt Castelli and Courier, 



82 OCTAVIA BRAGALDl ,* 



SCENE SECOND. 



Odaviah Apartment, 

Octavia discovered seated at a table on which half- 
consumed tapers are burning. 

Octavia, after a pause. 
No, no ; 'tis vain ! It will not be ! 
There is no rest, Starting up. 

There is no peace for me ! 
The very walls around me have a voice 
And cry — «' Revenge !" — But how ? No means — 

but blood. 
Oh horrible ! I've brooded on that wish 
Till I have craved to die, or else go mad. 
Belied, disgraced for ever, and by him 
Whom I had pardoned and prayed not to hate — 
But savagely to slay — oh, madd'ning thought ! 
Yet life without it is one cheerless void — 
Its only hope and stay, its honour, gone, — 
While he, my base accuser, soars to fame ! 
The world, whose pigmy souls do feed on slander, 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 83 

Will still repeat the tale with added taunts ! 
And then his loife, his proudly spotless wife, 
Who, never being tempted, ne'er did wrong, 
Will speak of me — of me ! with chilling sneer, 
Or worse, will pity me. Her pity ! Oh! {Shuddering 
Must then Bragaldi's wife bear this? no, never! 

[Enter Bragaldi. 

Bragaldi. 
I'll think no more, for 'tis Promethean torture. 
The tale thou toldst me seems of leaden weight 
To crush e'en Atlas' strength. Am I not bound — 
My proud will fettered, and the gladd'ning hope 
Of reparation gone for ever from me ? 
He hath refused to meet my challenge once, 
And dost thou think he'll now retract refusal ? 

Octavia. 
Is not the dagger swifter than the sword ? 

Bragaldi^ after a pause. 
That thought from thee, so kind and gentle once ? 
Can this be thou, thus changed ? 



84 

Odavia. 

'TisI, thy wife! 
We never know the strength of our passions 
Till time or circumstance doth draw them forth. 
Look on the plains of our own Italy — . 
See nature smiling in triumphant beauty 
As naught but Time could change it. Look again ! 
And in the passing of an hour, see 
That lovely spectacle one blackened ruin — 
The solid earth rocked to its very centre, 
And from the fierce volcano streams of fire 
Devouring and destroying all around. 
E'en such a change, so sudden and so blasting, 
Hath passed o'er me. 

Bragaldi. 

And yet to murder — No ! 
Although I seek revenge, I ne'er could so 
Belie my nature. 

Odavia. 

What !— Bragaldi, think ! 
If Heav'n should bless, or curse, — our union with 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 85 

A child, destined hereafter to inherit 
The name and honour of thy house, then think 
Of the foul plague-spot that will haunt him ever, 
His mother's infamy ! 

Bragaldi. 

No more ! no more ! 

Odavia. 
Think of thy pure and guileless sister's wo. 
Shunned by the virtuous and nobly born, — 
Abandoned e'en by him who sought her hand. 
Doomed to live on heart-broken and unloved, 
For bearing our spotted name. 

Bragaldi. 

Oh torture ! 

Odavia. 

If that doth fail, think of thine own proud fame. 

Thy glory, as thou deem'dst it, now profaned ! 

Behold thy honour as a husband lost, 

And thou held in the world a tool and dupe ! 

If these do not suffice, think then thou seest 

My father burst the confines of the grave, 
8 



86 

And with his trembling lips appeal to thee 
For vengeance on the sland'rer of his child. 

Bragaldi. 
Thou'lt madden me, Octavia ! 

Odavia. 

Madden thee ! 
What then am I ? Thou canst not feel as / do. 
Woman alone can know what woman feels 
When thus reviled and slandered. 

Bragaldi. 

Yes, by heaven ! 
It were indeed a glorious blow to strike 
The villain dead this very night ! — and yet — 
To stab him like a midnight murderer 
That slays for gold — like an assassin ! never ! 

Octavia. 
And canst thou hesitate to slay that man 
Who now in triumph smiles in scorn upon thee?- 
Or pities thee, the poor disgraced Bragaldi ! 
By whom, before th' assembled, list'ning nobles, 
Thy faithful w^ife, whose infamy thou shar'st, 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 87 

Was loudly branded with the name of — wanton ! 
Doth not that word send lightning through thy veins ? 
Doth it not chase away all thought of judgment 
Here — all deeper dread of wrath hereafter ? Think 
On that one word — that burning, blistering word, 
And waver if thou canst ! 

Bragaldi. 

I pause no more. 
Here, by thy wrongs, behold me firmly swear 
This night, this very hour, Castelli dies ! 
Avenging Heaven ! hear — attest my oath ! 
Farew^ell. Fear not. E'en should I hesitate, 
That word alone would spur me to the blow. 
I go, Octavia. Doubt me not. I've sworn. 

[_Exit Bragaldi. 

Octavia, listening at the door. 
He's gone ! His tread sounds fainter, fainter still ! 
Soon wall Castelli's eyes be closed. In Ufe's 
Last agony his breath will curse his slayer 
With its blood-stifled gasp. Ah ! Shuddering. 
She totters to a chair. Then listens. 

Hush! Hark! now 



88 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

That step — 'tis heard no more. A pause. 

E'en since last night 
Have I become so desperate and hardened 
That I can calmly listen to the tread 
Of one who goes to slay — and he my husband 1 

Starting up. 
Oh ! that I were a child again, as blithe 
As when I knelt beside my father's knee 
And nightly breathed my guileless prayers to Heav'n ! 
And why not now pray thus to ease my heart? 
No, no, J dare not pray ! — Who's there ? Well, 

speak ! 
'Tis no one. All is still. — I'll wake Clorinda, 
I cannot bear to be thus left alone. 
Yet not alone, — for eyes are gazing on me, 
And voices whisper me — and shadows move — 
Brain ! Brain ! Turn not with agony ! — I'll not 
Stay here — I'll follow him, ere I go mad 
And so forget his name. Bragaldi! Hear! 
I come ! I come ! 

Octavia rushes off. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 89 



SCENE THIRD. 

Another Apartment in BragaldPs Mansion. 
[Enter Clorinda and Giulian. 

Clorinda. 
Do then as I have told thee, faithful Giulian, 
And that despatched, get thee to rest, good friend. 

Giulian. 
I fear my lady is not well, sweet madam. 

Clorinda. 
The court's gay revelry exhausts her strength. 
The memory of her former woes still frights her, 
E'en as a shadow doth a timid child. 
And casts a partial gloom o'er all her peace. 
But once to-day I've seen her; 'tis her will 
That no one should disturb her privacy. 

Giulian. 
It is my duty to obey, but this seclusion bodes ill 
for my lady's health. 

\_T1ie hell tolls one. 
8* 



90 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Clorinda. 
An hour past midnight ! Hasten, Giulian : now 
Bid all retire to rest, and go thyself. 
Thine aged head requires repose far more 
Than my young eyes, and even they, in sooth, 
Are almost closed with weariness. 

Giulian. 
Shall I call thy maiden, madam ? 

Clorinda. 

Oh no ! 

Yonder she waits for me e'en now, and in 
Her heart, I doubt not, murmurs sadly at 
My long delay. Good night. 

Giulian. 
Good night, sweet madam ; peaceful sleep 
And happy dreams. attend you. 

Clorinda. 

Thanks. Though thy wish 
I trust is needless. Girlhood's bright content 
And a pure heart bring peace to any pillow. 
Be it of humble maid, or high-born dame. 

Good-night. 

[Exeunt Clorinda and Giulian. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 91 

SCENE FOURTH. 

The Court-yard of CastelWs Palace, with gates at 
the back, leading to the street. On one side is the 
entrance to the palace through a portico up a flight 
of steps. Moonlight. Castelli enters from the 
palace with papers in his hand, followed by the 
Courier, 

Castelli. 

This business wherewith our Duke hath charged me 

Indeed is weighty, and I marvel not 

That by this private summons he commands me 

So late to meet in secret at the palace. 

Go thou at once and say I'll follow quickly. 

I'll but inform my wife that I must leave her, 

Then instantly attend his grace's will. 

Courier. 
I shall repeat your message. 

( Goes out through the centre gate. 

Castelli. 
So 'tis well. 
Chance seems to aid all my attempts at power. — 



92 OCTAFIA BRAGALDi; 

My servants sleep, fatigued by late carousing ; 
I'll not awake them, for 'tis best they know not 
Whither I go. No time is to be lost. 

[Exit into palace. 

Enter Bragaldi with a cloak and mask through the 
gates. 

Bragaldi. 
All's silent now ; all nature is at rest; 
Ay ; e'en the city's busy stir is hushed. 
Yonder's his palace, where the tired menials 
Have left the door unguarded. Now to lure 
Him forth — I am resolved ; no power can move me. 
Ye poor disguises, aids to my design, 

{Putting on the mask and cloak. 
For this one deed I use ye ; but that done, 
With what exulting joy I'll cast ye off! 
One blow ! No pause — delay is ruin. Now 
Avenging powers, aid me! I am firm — 
He dies ! 

[ Castelli enters from the palace. 

Castelli. 
So, I am ready iVll is still. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 93 

Should I not take a single servant ? No ; 
There's no fear of robbers here in Milan. 



'aldij advancing, 
'Tishe! 

Castelli, drawing his sword. 
How now ! what seek you here ? 

Bragaldi, 

Your blood. 
Defend yourself! 

Rushes upon him, disarms and stabs him with the 
dagger. 

Castelli. 
Help there ! Beset by villains 
At my palace gate ! Whose arm hath struck — 

Bragaldi^ unmasking. 

Behold! 
Bragaldi ! 

Castelli. 
Ah ! Bragaldi ! Slain by thee ! Just Heav'n ! 



94 



OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 



Odavia, speaking without. 
This must be the spot. Where art thou ? 
{She enters through the gates. \ 

Speak ! my husband ? 

Bragaldi. 
Octavia ! Look ! thou art avenged. 

Castelli. 

Octavia! Oh! 
Forgive my falsehood — retribution— Heav'n — 
Protect my wife. — and mercy — Dies. 



END OF ACT IV. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 95 



ACT FIFTH. 



SCENE FIRST. 



Odavia^s apartment. Odavia discovered leaning 
against the open window. 

Odavia. 
Night ! welcome night ! when wilt thou come again ! 

! when man's villany first made me grieve, 

In my own heart I looked and hoped for peace, — 
Now dare I not appeal unto that Heav'n 

1 have so far incensed. 

Jl Imocking heard. 

Who's there ! 

[Filter Clorinda. 

Clorinda. 

'Tis I. 
I fear, sweet sister, that you are not well. 

Odavia. 
In my own thoughts I bear a gnawing grief 
That soon will be my death. 



96 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Clorinda. 

One early fauli 
Alone has been the source of all this wo. 
Sad moral — ^learned too late ! But sure, if thou 
For that one error, by thy youth excused, 
Dost feel such deep regret, think ! what must those 
Endure, whose souls are burthened with a crime! 

Odavia. 
Aside. Oh agony ! Aloud. I tell thee, misery ! 

Clorinda. 
Why, thou couldst not more deeply grieve were thy 
Soul stained with blood. 

Odavia. 

Bood ! Name it not ! Away ! 
Rushes past her. Clorinda is approaching her. 
Nay, touch me not, for I shall poison thee ; 
There's such a pestilence doth cling to me 
I do infect the very air I breathe. 

Clorinda. 
I know the cause that thus alarms thee. Ay ! 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 97 

Odavia. 
Tis false ! (Recollecting herself.) 

Nay, heed me not. Aside. Oh torture 

Clorinda. 

Yes. 
I know the cause. Castelli has returned. 
I've learned his treachery in wedding thee, 
But he'll not now molest thee. 

Octavia. 

Art thou sure ? 
Aside. Eternity, thou canst not have in store 
Worse agony than this ! 

Clorinda. 

Hast seen his wife ? 
Though he deserves her not, Alberto says 
So truly doth she love him, that his death 
Would break her heart. 

Octavia. 
Aside. And I have widowed her ! 

Aloud. How have I injured thee, that thou shouldst 

tear 
My heartstrings thus ? 



98 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Clorinda. 

What have I said ? I spoke 
But to divert thy thoughts. 

Odavia. 

Ay, to divert ! 
Why how thou art alarmed. A word will fright 
thee. 

Indeed 'tis mirthful. Wildly. 

Clorinda. 
Sister, such strange mirth 
Is fearful. I will leave thee for awhile. 

Jipart. 
I'll meet Alberto ere he seeks my brother, 
For while this woful mystery exists 
There is no room for joy. 

Aloud. Heav'n bless thee, sister ! 

Octavittf shuddenng. 
Thou too art changed into a fiend to mock me ! 
Leave me ! Leave me ! 

Clorinda approaches to embrace her. She shrinks 
from her touch. 

Away ! I am unworthy ! 
[Exit Clonnda, sorrowfully. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 99 

Would heaven, in its mercy, drive me mad ! 
I know not what a hardened villain feels. 
But oh ! a once pure heart, sunk into guilt, 
Endures on earth all pangs condemned souls 
Hereafter suffer in perdition. — Could 
I rest — forgetfulness brings peace ! Oh then 

'Tis surely not for me ! 

\_Exit Octavia, 



SCENE SECOND. 

Jin Apartment in Bragaldih Mansion. Enter 
Giulian meeting Alberto. 

Alberto^ hastily. 
Giulian, conduct me to Bragaldi, haste — 
Or to Clorinda, instantly. 

Giulian. 

My lord? 

Alberto. 
fyet there's time I'd warn him. Jfoise heard. 

'Tis too late. 



100 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Giulian^ looking off. 
What means that noise ? Soldiers here ! They 
Crowd the hall, and now surround each door. 
What can this mean ? 

Alberto retires dejectedly. \Enter Tebaldo. 

Tehaldo, 
How now, good Giulian, where's your master ? 

Giulian. 
In his own apartment. Has aught occurred, my lord ? 
Some danger to the state ? 

Tebaldo. 

None. 

Giulian. 

My lord, forgive me ; I am old, and have lived 
with my kind master since his birth. 

I know his noble heart, and his affection makes me 
think him my son and not my master. Therefore I 
pray you tell me why you come with these soldiers 
to seek him so hurriedly? 

Tebaldo. 
He is accused of murder. 



OU, THE CONFESSION. 101 

Giulian. 

Murder ! 

Tehaldo. 

Yes. 
This morn at day-break the brave Count Castelli 
Was found before his palace entrance, slain. 

Giulian. 
And you suspect my master ? 

Tehaldo. 
Castelli uttered slander 'gainst Octavia : 
Thy master vowed revenge. Not on these grounds 
Alone do we suspect. Know'st thou this jewel .? 

Shows the cross worn by Octavia, and which Jell 
from her girdle in the last scene of Act IV. 

Giulian. 
'Tis very like one that my lady wears. 

Tebaldo. 
'Twas found beside Castelli's murdered corse. 

Giulian. 

Alas ! Alas ! 

9* 



102 



OCTAVIA EIIAGALDI : 



Tehaldo. 
His death demands atonement. Ho ! within there ! 

[Enter Luigi. 
Conduct me to your lord. 

Alberto, follow ! 
[Exeunt Luigi and Tehaldo. 

Alberto^ advancing. 
Go, Giulian, to Clorinda ; bid her maidens 
Break gently to her the sad news, and sooth her ; 
But for the present, keep her from her brother. 

[Exit Giulian. 
Unlooked for wo ! Now then to seek my friend. 
Justice must be obeyed. Alas ! Bragaldi ! 

[Exit Alberto. 



SCENE THIRD. 

Another Apartment in BragaldVs mansion. Centr 
doors leading to an inner room. 

[Enter Bragaldi. 

Bragaldi. 
My poor Octavia ! now she sleeps in peace. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 103 

This respite from despair may aid her, else 
Her frame too sure will sink beneath the blow. 
Ere this 'tis known Castelli has been slain. 
Where will suspicion light? On me? There are 
No proofs; if asked, I can deny. What! lie 
To screen my life ! But will death be my doom ? 
A husband's honour dwells within his wife, 
And she once slandered, what man's heart could be 
So base and cold as not to seek atonement ! 
Yet midnight murder — such it is in truth, 
And I must bear the stain upon my soul. 
My wife ! Thy love has been my all on earth, 
Nor will I shrink from death itself for thee. 

^Enter Luigi. 

Luigi. ' 
The Lord Orsani here would speak with you. 

[Enter Tebaldo and exit Luigi. 

Bragaldi. 
Thou'rt welcome, friend. 



Tebaldo. 



I bring unwelcome news. 



104 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

{An officer and four guards enter ^ and after them, 
Alberto. The officer stations the guards 'at the 
different doors, and then goes off towards the other 
apartments.) 

I come on a most fearful errand. 

Bragaldi. 

Speak! 

Tebaldo. 
Castelli has been murdered. 



Bragaldi. 

Murdered! 



Tebaldo. 
Last night before his palace-door. 



Accuse me of the deed ? 



Ay 



And you 



Tebaldo. 

The public voice 
Accuses thee — not I ; and as thy friend 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 105 

The Duke bade us in private tell thee this. 
In mem'ry of the high respect he bore thee. 

Bragaldi, 
I thank his mercy. Why am I accused ? 

Tehaldo, 
Thy story known did first suggest the thought 
To ev'ry mind ; but near the corse was found 
This curious jewel. [Giving it\ 

Bragaldi. 
Can it be ? 



Your wife 



Tebaldo. 

Wears one that much resembles it. 

Bragaldi. 

Not she. 
I have a jewel like it. She has none. 
It does resemble mine. {Returns it.) 
The officer re-enters with the cloak Bragaldi wore in 
the last scene of the Ath act. 

Tebaldo. 

How now ? 



106 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Officer. 

My lord, 
Obeying your directions, we have searched 
Throughout the mansion, and have found this man- 
tle. 



'Tis yours 



Tebaldo to Bragaldi. 

Bragaldi. 
It is. 

Officer^ unfolding it. 

Behold ! 'tis stained with blood. 
A pause. 

Bragaldi. 
Then be it so. Away all vain disguise ! 
The jewel is my own. I own it. Yes, 
I slew Castelli. I could stoop to murder, 
Commit a crime to satisfy revenge, 
But cannot stoop to lie. I slew Castelli. 

Tebaldo to officer, 
I'll to the palace. Guard the pris'ner well. 

\_Exit Tebaldo. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 107 

Alberto advancing. 
How could thy nature so debase itself? 

Bragaldi. 
Question me not, my friend. I will not answer. 
No commune on my motives will I hold 
But 'twixt my heart and heaven. I've confessed. 
My doom is death. 

Alberto. 

Soon as I heard the tale 
I came, (too late, alas!) to warn thee. Still 
A friend may sooth thy wo. 

Officer advancing to Bragaldi. 

Good sir — 

Alberto. 

I pray 
Let me perform thy duty. Officer assents and retires. 

Thanks! 
To Bragaldi, Your sword. 

Bragaldi, offering it. 

'Tis here unstained. For my sake, wear it. 



108 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI j 

He recoils. Nay, 
It hath been used but in my country's cause. 
Take it, and when thou hear'st my name reviled, 
Let it remind thee of a man whose honour 
Was never stained but by one fearful deed. 

Alberto. 
I take it, and will ever treasure it. 
Hast thou no other weapon ? 

Bragaldi. 

None. — My sister- 
How fares she ? doth she know ? — 



Alberto. 

She does, and weeps 

Bragaldi. 
When I am gone, protect 



In solitude. 



Her! 



Alberto. 
With my life. My mother shall be hers. 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 109 



Bragaldi. 
Thanks — thanks ! I would not see her, but I pray 
Give her my heart's best wish, a brother's blessing. 
My poor domestics too — 

Alberto. 

They shall be cared for. 

Bragaldi. 
And for my wife — 

Odavia, within. 

Detain me not — I will — 
I must have entrance. She rushes in. 

Oh, Bragaldi, speak 
What mean these armed men around the door ? 

Bragaldi. ■ 
Castelli has been murdered. I'm accused. 

Odavia. 
Thou ! no ! who dares — 

Bragaldi. 

I have confessed. 
10 



110 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Odavia. 

'Tis false. 

To Alberto and Officer. 
'Twas I that murdered him — I say 'twas I. 
I urged my husband on — I swear 'twas I. 
If he is doomed, why I alike am guilty ; 
The partner of his crime should suffer with him. 

Rushing into his aims. 

Bragaldi. 
My friends, believe her not. She raves. I slew him. 
I saw my wife, — my honoured, faithful w^ife, 
Disgraced and slandered by the villain who 
First w^on her — then deceived her ! Could I pause ? 
Could I behold her thus deprived of all — 
The only pride of woman torn away — 
Her life, a life of shame and misery — 
Could I see this and tamely bear it ? No ; 
A true Italian spirit w^armed my heart, 
Keen to perceive affront, and as the lightning 
Swift to avenge a wrong. 



OR, THE COiMFESSION. Ill 

Odavia. 

Oh ! say not so ! 
My desp'rate passion urged thee on to guilt — 
Yet thou'lt forgive — 

Bragaldi. 
Forgive, and love thee ever ! 
Blame not thyself alone. Castelli's scorn 
Increased the flame thy woes had kindled here. 
Alberto, — yes ! his arrogant contempt 
Denied all reparation for his guilt. 
A soldier's pride — my honour as a husband — 
My happiness — my once untarnished name — 
All withered by his pois'nous breath : — I sought 
To crush the reptile ; nor observed the flower 
"Which that rash action trampled in the dust. 

Odavia. 
Mourn not for me ! Thou art the only tie 
That made me love the world. Thou gone, it would 
Be misery to live. 

Bragaldi. 

Still true ! still firm 
Thy love! I've lived for thee alone, Octavia ; 
For thy sake I'll gladly die. 



112 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

The officer advances^ having examined the inner room. 

Officer, 

Good sir, 
My duty bids. You must retire hence 
To yonder chamber more securely guarded. 

Bragaldi. 
I go— 

Octavia. 
But not alone. No arm will tear 
A poor, heartbroken wife from her doomed lord. 
We will not part on earth. 

Officer. 

Then be it so. 
I would be merciful to the extent 
My orders grant. The guard shall here remain. 

Bragaldi, 
Octavia, come 1 In death alone thou'lt find 
The refuge which I cannot give thee now. 
Daughter of sorrow, in the grave at least 
Thou wilt be safe from persecuting slander — 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 113 

It cannot reach thee there. — Alberto, I 
Had deemed my heart so fenced with iron pride 
That naught could reach it; but thy kindness has 
O'ercome me. I rejoice CasteUi's dead, 
And know his fate deserved. But when I see 
The gen'ral wreck I've caused around me here, 
J feel, — the blindness of man's puny will 
E'en in success destroys itself, and so 
Should leave revenge to Heaven's hand alone! 
He bids Alberto farewell. Then, extending his arms 
to Odavia! She rushes to him. They retire to the 
inner apartment and the doors are closed. 

A trumpet sounds without. 

Alberto. 
Say, what new alarm is this } 

[Enter Luigi, 

Luigi. 
The nobles with a mandate from the Duke. 

[Enter Loredana, and two other nobles, 

Loredano, 

We come with woful tidings. Speak, Larini 

Where are thy friends ? 

10* 



114 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Alberto. 
E'en now they left me in 
Such bitter anguish ! — In the battle's roar 
I've seen my truest friend struck down beside me, 
And heard his dying groan for those afar — 
I've seen the agony of her fond heart 
Who watched for his return, and flying swift 
To give him welcome, only met his corse! 
But oh ! their wo ne'er equalled this despair, 
For self-reproach had no part in their grief. 

Loredano, 
Is then Octavia and Bragaldi's love 
Still firm ? 

Alberto. 
Unchanging as the will of Heav'n ! 
Each seeks to save the other from the doom 
That threatens both. Their fate on earth is sealed. 
But midvSt the darkness of the tomb, one gleam 
Of sunshine lingers still with blessed power — 
Love, strongest e'en in death ! — no more, I pray ! 

[Enter Tebaldo, 
What brings you here ? 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 115 

Tehaldo, 
It is the Duke's command 
That we should guard the pris'ner to the palace. 

A sound of something falling in the inner room. 
Hark ! What means that noise ? Where is Bragaldi.-^ 

Officer. 
In yonder room, my lord. His wife is with him. 

Tehaldo. 
Unclose the doors^ and bring them forth. 

The doors are opened, and as the officer is about to 
enter, Octavia appears. 

Octavia, wildly. 

Forbear ! 
Advance not nearer ! Strangers here ! Whom seek 
ye? 

Tehaldo. 
Thy husband, lady, he must hence with us. 

Octavia. 
Go, bring him forth. 



116 OCTAVIA BRAGALDi; 

Alberto and officer enter the room immediately 

Alberto, within. 

Merciful Heaven! 

Tebaldo and Loredano. 

Speak ! 

Alberto, rushing out with a dagger. 
Bragaldi's dead ! 

All, 
Dead ! 

Alberto, 
Ay ! it is too true. 
He lies on yonder couch ; his life extinct, — 
This reeking dagger by his side — 

Tebaldo. 

Whence came it ? 

Octavia. 
From me ! Ha ! he hath foiled you — he defies you — 
He ne'er would lay his head upon the block. 

With wild exultation, ending in passionate grief, 
He's dead !— He's dead !— He's dead !— 



OR, THE CONFESSION. 117 

Loredano. 

Unhappy man ! 
Dupe of mistaken vengeance.- — Art thou gone ! 
Let us bear hence his wife and bring her comfort. 

Odavia, waving him off still more wildly. 
Comfort ! I have it. I shall soon rejoin him. 
Poison now runs through my veins. 

Mherto. 

Call help ! 

Octavia, supported by Alberto. 
No ! Stay ! I urged — Bragaldi — to the murder. 
Oh brain ! Seeking for her cross and not finding it 
about her. 

That cross ! 
Tebaldo shows it to her. She presses it to her heart, 

'Twas his first gift. 
Bury it with me, — and lay us in one grave. — 
Your prayers ! 

.Alberto. 
She's dying ! Help ! 

Octavia. 
Death's chill is on me now. 
My heart's all ice— my brain's all fire ! See, see — 



118 OCTAVIA BRAGALDI. 

There's my father. Father ! my heart is broken 
— do not trample on it. Curse me not ! Mercy ! 
Mercy! Stay! — What flood rises round me.'' 'Tis 
dark and thick — 'tis blood — blood — blood! It rises, 
it chokes, it stifles me ! Help ! — Ah ! I'm free — •. 
I'm free. 

Alberto. 
Alas ! her reason's fled. 

Odavia. 
Bragaldi ! Hark ! Castelli speaks, yet lightning 
comes not from Heaven to blast him. Courage ! 
One blow ! Revenge ! Is't done ? — Yes, there the 
blood flows on — Hark ! he curses — curses ! Look ! 
is he alive ^ It is a spectre. Ah ! 'tis not Castelli. 
It is my father! Bragaldi! See! I've murdered my 
own father ! 

(She falls dead. 

Clorinda hastens ojiy followed by Giulian. Alberto 
raises Odavia in his arms : Clorinda assisting 
him; while the otiier characters group around them 
in silence. 

THE END. 



FUGITIVE PIECES. 



On the day on which the account of Queen Victoria's corona- 
tion arrived in New York, I wrote the ensuing metrical sketch. 
It derives extraneous interest from the fact of its having been 
read and accepted, nearly six years afterwards, by the Sovereign 
and her royal mother, who are its heroines. The gracious promp- 
titude of their acceptance of it, immediately upon my single and 
unadorned request, was doubly flattering, as it was a compliment 
far more to my nation, than to me as an individual. 

The " Dead Geranium" is a simple narration of minute family 
occurrences. 

The Address on the Return of the Volunteers was written in 
Augusta ; the Georgian Volunteers having returned from Florida, 
where they had endured severe and protracted hardships, and 
whither they had gone to protect their fellow-countrymen from 
the destructive incursions of the adjacent Indian tribes. These 
volunteers were among the most worthy and respectable citizens 
of Augusta, and left their professions and trades, their families 
and their substance, to befriend others without fee or reward. 



u 



THE NIGHT OF THE COKONATION. 



WRITTEN ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF THE CORONATION OF 



VICTORIA I. 



And all the people shouted and said God save the King /" 

I. Samuel. 



It is the dead of night, all London is at rest ; 
Save where from yonder wide, illuminated street, 
The hum of crowds, who seek with eager step their 

homes. 
Breaks on the watcher's ear. Anon, the broken 

laugh 
Of one o'ercome with wine, jars on the silent air. 

In that vast room the feast is spread ; the sparkling 

cup 
Is passed from hand to hand : and midst their glee, 

the shout 



124 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

<« Long live the Queen /" startles the neigh'bring 
dreamers. While 

Low crouching cold in yon recess, the beggar 
clasps 

Her tired child, and strives to wrap her in the rags 

That with each effort tear afresh. That babe's the 
last 

Of a once merry throng, whom want and foul dis- 
ease 

Have slain. The mother weeps in grief, but not 
despair ; 

She puts her trust in Him who answered Hagar's 
cry: 

Her longing eyes peer through the open window, 
where 

The festive board speaks plenty, while she starves 
without — 

The laugh, the toast, the song, alternate pass. — 

A guest 

Withdraws from that carouse, and stalking home- 
ward, meets 

The weeping outcast. 

" What ! In tears ? that must not be. 

No grief on such a night as this. Here, lone one, take 



THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 125 

These coins. Get thee a home, warm clothing, 
food and fire. 

To-night's a jubilee; go, — cry (■Long live the 
Queen. ^ " — 

The poor one sees the shining gold, and on the 
stones 

Falls trembling on her knees, and shrieks thanks- 
giving forth, — 

Praise unto Heav'n and gratitude to him who thus 

Hath saved tw^o lives. 

" God bless thee, and repay tenfold 

Thy bounty ! Soon this babe shall pray for thee— 
and though 

As yet, poor child of sorrow, nameless she hath 
been, 

I'll call her now, Victoria ! While the onward 
course 

Of years succeeding, marks this joyous day's re- 
turn. 

The name may nourish still in her young heart the 
thought 

Of charity to all, and trust in Heav'n. I now 

With happy heart indeed may cry, < Long live the 
Queen .'' " — 

11* 



126 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

The lonely sentinel \\'ho paces near yon gate, 
Hearing the sound, unconsciously unites his shout 
With hers, — <' Long live the QueenV — Then as his 

measured round 
Brings him hard by that vast majestic pile,* his voice 
Low whisp'ring dies away, and slowly he stalks on. 

In yon rich chamber sits a girl o'er whose pure brow 
The suns of nineteen summers have not shed a care. 
Upon that bed, whose silken fringes sweep the floor, 
Is cast a crimson robe, with gold and ermine 

decked ; 
The crown lies near it, thrown impatiently aside. 
Clusters of gems, and broidered badges of her state 
Are scattered at her feet. Attendance irksome felt 
But now, she bade all leave her — she's alone with 

Heav'n. 
Her hair she hath unloosed to cool her fevered brain. 
Her face is passionless — not calm. A solemn act 
Hath left its impress ; tender feelings, anxious 

thoughts, 

Religious hopes, are struggling there. She is not 
now 

* Buckingham Palace. 



THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 127 

The queen of ocean's pride, fair Britain's rocky 
isle, — 

She is the young, pure, trusting, inexperienced 
girl, 

Launched on a sea as yet by her unknown, un- 
crossed. 

The commune Christians hold in solitude with 
Heav'n 

Bursts from her thoughtful soul. 

" Yes, it is past! The deed 

That binds me to a life of lofty destiny 

Is now fulfilled. I am a queen ! Have ta'en the 

oath! 
And felt poured on me the anointing oil that still 
Since Saul arose hath been the chosen sign to mark 
God's stewards on earth for good—but oh ! too oft 

for harm. 
What though each subject's heart was raised in love 

and trust 
Throughout the land this day towards me ! What 

though before 
My footstool knelt the patriot, statesman, warrior, 

sage, 
With white hairs bowed in homage to a timid girl I 



128 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

What though this day first saw a heathen envoy* 

come 
111 peace to hail the crowning of a Christian king! 
What though two gen'rals,f who in strife had oft, 

as chiefs 
Of adverse armies, met, now both in friendship's 

bonds 
United, cheered me there ! Ah no ! it was not these, 
Though glad events they are, that filled me with 

deep thoughts : 

It was the awful charge that I this day have ta'en 

Upon myself.—" 

So mused the maid, when rising swift, 

As by a sudden impulse urged, upon her knees 

She sunk, and with clasped hands raised her ador- 
ing eyes 

To Him who still is present ev'ry where, unseen. 

The faith in w^hich she hath been reared doth fill 
her heart, 

And in its creed she offers up a queen's first prayer. 
'« Almighty God ! to Thee alone I look for aid. 

* Turkish Ambassador. t Wellington and Soult. 



THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 129 

Most Blessed Spirit ! pour the vials of Thy grace 
On me ! Oh, make me humble — grant me a new 
heart ! 

Father ! perfect the work the spirit shall begin ! 
Let me for Thy ten talents, twenty \.?i\Qn{s gain ; 
And let me hear advice — accept the good — eschew 

The evil; — make my kingdom prosper, and the 
poor, 

Neglected oft, my ceaseless care. Let flatt'ry's in- 
cense 

Have no pow'r to cloud Truth's image shrined 
within 

My soul. Grant me a mind, that like Ithuriel's 
spear. 

Bids vice start forth in its real hideous shape, that I 

May openly denounce and shun it. Chief of all 

My sex in rank, frame me its model bright — the 
shield 

Protecting female innocence. When lives Thou 

gav'st 
Are in my hand, let * mercy season justice,' nor 
Let misplaced clemency encourage vice. If I 
Must wed, then guide my girlish fancy to select 



130 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

One whose unspotted worth may prove the piibUc 

weal. 
Oh, aid me to remain Thy Faith's Defender still ! 
By me revered and practised, Omnipresent make 
Religion ! Help me so to live, that when within 

Thy balance weighed, I may not be found want- 
ing ! — Lord ! 
On her who faithfully Thy will hath ever done — 
Who, under Thee, hath made me what I am, — 

bestow 
Thy golden joys ; let her in life and death be blest, 
And feel her love for me hath not been unreturned. 

« Blessed Redeemer, at Thy feet I cast my weight 
Of sin ! Clothe me in faith, and with Thy precious 

blood. 
Shed for all sinners, w^ash me clean. Then, after 

death. 
Lead me to taste salvation, where the hours will pass 
In hymns of ceaseless praise unto the Triune 

God!—" 

Her prayer is o'er; she's happy: not upon herself 
She leans — a bruised reed; but on the Rock of 
Truth, 



THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 131 

Which to her thirsty lips doth yield its living streams. 
She rises. — Her young heart throbs quicker, and a 

smile 
Of warm, expecting love, lights up her face. A 

step, 

Gentle, yet eager, echoes on the night. A door 
Is softly opened. Lo ! a matron comes: her mien 
Majestic : beauty lingers o'er the ripened form 

As loath to lose its once loved resting-place, where 

time 
And care, and thought matured, have cast a mellow 

shade. 

" Mother !— " 

«<My child!— " 

They spring into each other's arms. 
Their holy love awhile from depth is silent. 

Knew not, my child, that thou wert waking yet. — " 

— <i Think'st thou 
That I could sleep without thy wonted blessing 

breathed 
Upon my head, that more to-night than ever, needs 
A mother's blessing ? 'Tis a spell to shut out pride. 



132 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

Heav'n's love and thine should be the last sweet 

thoughts to dwell 
Upon my fevered brain before I sink to rest. — " 

" My child ! Mj queen ! — " 

, — "No, call me still Victoria! Yes, 
Thy darling child still call me as when round thy 

knees 
I learned the first great truths that taught me to be 

good. 
Oh, dearest mother, what I owe to thee ! When left 
Alone in a strange land, deprived of thy heart's hope. 
My noble father, — thou didst triumph o'er thy grief 
For me, the widow's child. For years didst thou 

contemn 

The pomp and pleasures which thy rank and higher 

worth 
Received, and were their due, — devoting every hour 
To me alone : — and though the height on which I 

stand 
Doth free me from thy rule in acts of state, at home 
We still are child and mother e'en as peasants are ! 
And now, thy blessing!—" 

Soft the parent laid her hand 



! 



n 



THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 133 

Upon the young fair head that bowed before her 

feet; 
And on her brow she pressed a mother's holy kiss— 
The pledge of love which angels ratify on high. 

" May God Omnipotent shed naught but bliss on 

thee ! 
Oh, may He make thee, sweet, a purely Christian 

queen! 
Let me but see thee blest, and faithful to thy trust — 
Let me but feel that He is with thee, — and in peace 
I'll go to my last rest, and leave my mem'ry still 
Kept like a secret altar in thy heart. — My child, — 
My loving child, good night ! — " 

****** 

In far America 
A simple girl, Victoria, pored upon the page 
That told thy coronation's glory, and while tongues 
With pride extolled the splendour of thy state, she 

thought 
That thou, like her, art young — a w^oman ! She 

beheld 
Thy heart in hers reflected clear. Though placed 

so high, 

12 



134 THE NIGHT OF THE CORONATION. 

Thou art not raised above the sympathies of earth: 
Woman is woman ev'rywhere ; on England's throne, 
Or tideless Mississippi's banks, she's still the same. 
Two nations speak one language, and affection's 

ties, 
Each day made stronger, surely will ere long erase 
All memories of former bitterness. — While peace 
Its blessings sheds on thy land as on ours, all lips 
E^en though republican^ this wish unite to breathe : 
May'st thou be all thy nation hope ; thy life be such. 
That after scores of years have flown, each British 

heart 
May cry as joyfully as now, " Long live the Queen .'" 

New York, 1838. 



THE DEAD GERANIUM. 



A DOMESTIC INCIDENT. 



Dry, sapless, withered, dost thou lie! 
No more thy buds will greet my eye, 
No more thy fragrance fill the air. 
Why art thou dead ? No watchful care 
Was spared to save thee ; night and day 
I strove to shield thee from decay ; 
But all in vain. Thy bloom is fled — 
Thy leaves have fallen — thou art dead ! 
A stranger's heart would deem me weak 
In tones of sadness thus to speak 
Of yon poor stem : but I will tell 
Wherefore I loved that plant so well. 

Three years since, to my happy home 
The little nursling first did come, 



136 THE DEAD GERANIUM. 

And in the Cottage-garden fair 

It flourished 'neath my mother's care/ 

Her plants she tended daily, while 

My father would her task beguile 

By standing near with look benign,— 

His arm, caressing, linked in mine : 

By stealth into his pocket crept, 

The kitten peeped, or played, or slept ; 

The spaniel old, sedately stood. 

Or barked wdth joy in gamesome mood : 

And through the air gay jests would ring 

From my young lips, that happy spring. 

The summer came, the flower grew% 

And months on wings of pleasure flew. 

While cooler airs awhile w^e sought, 

The summer passed ; its closing brought 

Irreparable wo. We came 

To that sweet Cottage still the same : 

That Cottage which a father's taste 

Had reared, and with each comfort graced ; 

The flowers bloomed as though elate 

To see us enter at the gate. 






THE DEAD GERANIUM. 137 

Us^ Yes. My mother near me stood; — 
And friends were with us kind and good : 
But to my father's home once more 
His lifeless form alone we bore ! 
That flower perfume gendy shed 
Where low reposed his honoured head, 
While 'mid the saddened crowd was heard 
Naught, save the preacher's hallowed word 
Entreating God to soothe and bless 
The widow and the fatherless. 
From door to door the house-dog ran — 
(His life now wasted to a span ; — ) 
With mournful howl and tearful face 
He roused the echoes of the place, 
And with his asking, piteous groan 
In each heart waked responsive moan. 

Months fled ; and grief's receding hand 
Awhile upon me left the brand 
Of health impaired: but passing time, 
And change of home, of scene, of clime. 
Still spared that plant. Across the main 
Its blooming beauties knew no wane ; 
12* 



138 THE DEAD GERANIUM. 

Arrived on Albion's rock-bound coast, 

Its fragrant health was yet my boast. 

A solace was it unto me 

In that small stem a friend to see, 

Reminding me of former days, 

And eyes that ne'er again could gaze 

Upon its buds; — of friendship past, — 

Of memories through life to last, 

And many an unconscious word 

Whose whispered breath its leaves hath stirred, 

When I with varied fancies wild 

The lonely hour oft beguiled. 

It called to mind my native land, 

My parents' love and accents bland, — 

The counsels sweet my mother gave, — 

My childhood's haunts — my father's grave! 

And I had hoped to leave it here 
To end its cherished, long career, 
Beneath my kinsman's roof to stay, 
A gift from me ; that when away 
A type might in its growth appear 
Of love for him, each coming year. 



THE DEAD GERANIUM. 139 

This must not be : like all of worth, 

And happiness, and hope, on earth, — 

Its season o'er, — the common doom — 

It seeks a refuge in the tomb, 

'Tis dead. Like it, poor child of clay, 

I, soon or late, shall fade away ; 

But still, unlike that flower, when 

Decay is o'er, I hope again, 

With those who love me, — those I love, — 

To bloom anew in fields above. 

London, 1844, 



I 



AN ADDRESS, 

SPOKEN ON THE RETURN OF THE GEORGIAN VOLUN- 
TEERS FROM FLORIDA. 

'Tis with an anxious heart and throbbing brow, 

That on this brilliant scene I enter now. 

Alone, unaided, trembling I appear, 

And come forth singly, as a volunteer. 

My voice, (the voice of all within this dome,) 

Bids the assembled wand'rers, welcome home ! — 

What rapturous thoughts of pure affection's fire, 
Does that one blessed word — our home — inspire! 
We bear with the vain world's deceitful charms. 
Endure cabals of state and wear's alarms, 
Secure, that while our toils abroad increase, 
Within our homes dwell happiness and peace. 

When stranger foes invade our native land, 
Danger joins men in one unshaken band ; 



AN ADDRESS. 141 

All private interest yields to public wo, 
And each man arms against the common foe. 
Or when the cherished hearthstones of our sires 
Have been profaned by war's destructive fires, 
In those loved ties there dwells a holy charm 
Gives tenfold strength to boyhood's feeble arm. 

How brave then, those^ whom friendship calls alone, 
« Eager to bleed in battles not their own :" 
No anxious nations urging them to fame — 
No loud alarums echoing back their name — 
A sister-land sends forth a wailing cry, 
And to that call those gallant hearts reply ! 
They tear themselves from those they love at last, 
All private gain by them aside is cast. 
The father's blessing doth the son implore — 
The tearful menials throng around the door. 
The happy infant stands unconscious by, 
Sees their distress, and asks the reason why ; 
Pleased with the glitt'ring sword, it draws the shin- 
ing blade, 
And dreams not of the widowed hearts weapons 
like that have made. 



142 AN ADDRESS. 

The sister bids adieu to him she holds so dear — 
The mother cannot speak ; her blessing iS' — a tear ! 
The trembling bride gasps forth one farewell sigh 
To him for whom she lives — with whom she'd die ! 
The last embrace is ta'en ; the parting word is 

spoken — 
Aflfection has exchanged each little, precious token ; 
The gallant band depart ; the last, sad, ling'ring 

look is o'er ; 
They've parted, not to meet for months — perhaps to 

meet no more 1 

To free that land, alas ! in vain the aid they bring. 
The ills of savage war too deep have left their sting ! 
Each little work a parent's hands had made, — 
The social hearth, the cool, retired glade, — 
Each cherished spot by happy kindred trod, — 
The holy shrine where hearts had bent to God, — 
The mansion where the grandsire's self was born, — 
The fruitful garden, and the ripening corn. 
All left alike a prey to savage, ruthless foes. 
And those the knife had spared, perish beneath 
their woes ! 



AN ADDRESS. 143 

All aid that little band can grant, by them is freely 

given ; 
Against each hardship in their path with firmness 

have they striven ; 
And though not theirs the happy lot to free that 

land from ill, 
The blessings of the friends they've served will wait 

upon them stiJl ! 
And when that land revives in peace, its people far 

and near, 
Will join in thanks and gratitude to the gen'rous 

Volunteer ! 

And w^hile with hopes oi peace each noble heart doth 

burn. 
Think of that welcome, glad event, the Volunteers' 

Return ! 
The thronging crowds assembled press along the 

strand 
To hail the safe return of that heroic band. 
Each friend, with trembling gaze, now anxiously 

draws near, — 
But every one returns, and needless is their fear ! 



144 AN ADDRESS. 

Heart beats to heart with rapid throb, in warm 

ecstatic greeting — 
'Twere well to part to feel the joy of such a blissful 

meeting ! — 
• 
Nor think it strange that from my feeble tongue 
These untaught words of welcome thus have sprung. 
I came but as a stranger to your Southern shore, — 
Now deep regret I feel that my brief stay is o'er ! 
If I should e'er return, I cannot now foretell — 
Then with my <« Welcome Home !" let me thus 

say — Farewell ! 

Augusta, Ga., 1836. 



THE FOREST PRINCESS, 



TWO CENTURIES AGO. 



AN HISTORICAL PLAY, IN THREE PARTS. 



13 



To the official courtesy and kindness of our 
minister, the Hon. Edward Everett, and to the 
facilities afforded by that admirable institution, the 
Library of the British Museum, I am indebted for 
the historical details of this play. It would appear 
only an affectation of pedantry to name the works, 
(at least twenty in number,) which were consulted 
previous to the writing of this ephemeral produc- 
tion. 

London, 1844. 



1 



INTRODUCTION. 

The lack of intelligible chronicles has left the early history of 
the red men imperfect ; the prejudice and injustice of their dis- 
possessors have too often falsified or obscured their traditions ; and 
the various dialects and rapid disappearance of many tribes render 
perishable the historic songs some rude Homer may have chanted . 
The life of Pocahontas is an exception to this lule : the great 
charm of all connected v^rith her is its certainty and truth. All 
the particulars of her biography are confirmed by relatively dis- 
tant and unimpeachable testimony, recorded by writers who, (so 
far from adding to narrative a single charm,) by their uncouth 
style and barren enumeration of events denude them of all beauty 
save their intrinsic worth. While the mere fact that some of the 
most worthy families in our land are the living descendants of 
Pocahontas, gives an almost prosaic reality to her existence. 

Considered in her individual career, Pocahontas stands forth 
from first to last the animated type of mercy and peace, unselfish- 
ness and truth. Her benevolence, (of which the limits of this 
play can record but a small part,) is neither a momentary im- 
pulse nor a cold system of utility : it is a warm, all-pervading 
and abiding principle. Her life was pure, active, and affectionate : 
her " beautiful, godly, and Christian death" was a theme of 
praise to all beholders. 

Considered in relation to the events which resulted from her 
instrumentality on earth, her character assumes still greater im- 



148 INTRODUCTION. 

portance. The various historians and colonists concur in the 
assertion that but for the benefactions of Pocahontas, Virginia 
would have been lost to England. The Dutch and the Spaniards 
were then aiming at a settlement, and would have established 
themselves there during the delay which must have inevitably 
occurred, had the British colonists starved to death or abandoned 
the spot, — a result which Pocahontas alone prevented. How 
far the aspect of civilization, of national character and govern- 
ment, of literature and science, in America, would have been 
affected, had other lands given customs, laws, and language to so 
extensive and central a portion of our continent, is a question well 
worthy of consideration, and in justice to Pocahontas, should 
ever be associated with her name. 

The great difficulty in the construction of a drama from this 
subject, — its unconquerable defect, rhetorically speaking, Ues in 
the division of the interest. Were it a romance, it were easy to 
heighten the attraction tenfold by representing love as the result 
of Pocahontas' compassion and Smith's gratitude, and thus per- 
fecting the unity of the plot. But this tale is no fiction; and 
though precedents illustrious in hterature exist where the acts of 
historical personages have been misrepresented to embellish 
romance, the justice of such a course may be questioned, espe- 
cially when, as in the present case, it would detract from the pure 
disinterestedness of a woman's fame. However rude may be the 
shrine on which Vesta's fire is kindled — however dim its blaze 
may seem, viewed through the misty atmosphere of centuries, — 
even the laws of classic fable forbid us to employ the torch of 
Hymen, or Cupid's ''purple light" to replenish the celestial 
flame. 



PERSONS OF THE DEAMA. 



EUROPEANS. 

Charles, Prince of Wales, aged 17. 

Sir Thomas Dale, Governor of Virginia. 

Captain- John Smith, " sometime Governor of Virginia, and 

Vice- Admiral of Nevsr England." 
Master JoHif Ratlieje, President of the Council. -\ 
Master John RoiFE. C Gentlemen. 

Master Robert Hunt, Preacher, 3 

WiiETAM VoLDAT, a Switzer. 
Anas Tobkill. 
Adam Francis. 
Master Newton. 
Page. 
Drawer. 

Colonists, Mechanics, Soldiers, &c. 
Queen Anne, Consort of James the First. 
Mistress Alice. 
Maud. 

NORTH AMERICANS. 

Powhatan, King of the Twelve Tribes of Powhatan. 

Opachisco. 

Mosco. 

Americans of the Tribes of the Paspaheghes, Monacans, &c. 
Pocahontas, the Forest Princess, named also Metoka, daughter 
of Powhatan, and afterwards baptized under the name of 
Rebecca. 

13* 



PART THE FIRST. 

Scene — America, in Wingandacoa, the land of Pow- 
hatan, named Virginia, by Sir Walter Raleigh, in 
compliment to Queen Elizabeth : — Time, 1607. 

PART THE SECOND. 

Scene — America — in the country of Powhatan: — 
Time, 1609. 

PART THE THIRD. 

Scene — England — in London and at Gravesend : — 
Time, 1609. 



FIRST PERIOD 1607. 



ACT FIRST. 



SCENE FIRST. 



The hanks of Powhatan River in Virginia. On one 
side is the entrance to the fort. On the other, a 
dump octrees crowning a small acclivity. Rude 
dwellings are seen near the fort and in the dis- 
tance. The British flag flies from the fort. All 
the colonists are discovered in various groups; 
some of the mechanics still retaining their tools. 
Mosco is discovered seated on the ground listening 
attentively. Rolfe, Smith, Ratliffe, Hunt, Francis, 

• Todkill and Volday advance. The rest assemble 
round them with respectful attention. 

Ratlife. 
Now, my brave friends and comrades, rest we here ; 
For well is leisure earned by zealous toil. 



152 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

There stand complete the first abodes by hands 

Of British artisans upreared, upon 

The Paspaheghes' land — the settlement 

Of fair Virginia. And by full consent 

Of this good council, we shall call the fort 

And dwellings, James Town, honouring the king 

By whose commission we explore these lands. 

AH, 
Long live King James ! 

Ratliffe. 
Your counsel, friends, I seek. — 
Right worthy Captain Smith, as thou hast learned 
The languages of many native tribes, 
And all their customs and geography. 
To thee I first address myself. 

Smith. 

The same 
Fair praise is merited by Master Rolfe, 
Who, all unused to labour, still hath toiled 
Without reward, hard as paid artisan, 
And from the savage brought to Britain young, 
Learned e'en as much as I. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 153 

Rolfe. 

You wrong me there. 
You are my elder and my better too : 
A soldier prudent, brave and tried, while I 
Wild for adventure, only hope to see 
The Indian countries noble Ralegh named, 
And with my sword to carve my way to fame 
And fortune — if I can. 

Smith. 

What more wouldst have? 
Who would at home drag out an aimless life, 
When honourable, bold ambition calls 
To lead through forests vast the arts and faith 
Of polished, civilized life — like pioneers. 
To hew a road to Glory's farthest goal, 
And write on her imperishable page 
The op'ning chapter of a nation's story. 

Hunt. 
Thy words like fire warm each heart that hears. 

Ratliffe. 
Now to our plans. This friendly Indian says 
Pointing to Mosco. 



154 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Yon noble stream and lands of vast extent 
Are ruled o'er by Virginia's mighty king — 
Great Powhatan : who lives in savage state 
At Orapaks, about four leagues from this. 
We must with him a treaty make that may 
Secure supplies of corn and other food, 
When we've exhausted all our vessel's store. 
A deputation to this king must go. 

Hunt. 
Might I advise, but two should bear the news. 
A number of strange faces would convey 
Semblance of hostile purpose. 

Ratliffe. 

Well you speak ; 
And Captain Smith first named — the other — 
Reflecting Stay — 

Smith. 
Most worthy president, I'll go alone. 
Each arm and head are needed to preserve 
The safety of the colony. 

Rolfe. 

Let me 
Thy danger share. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 155 

Smith, Apart to him. 

Thou art more needed here. 
Besides, if thou would'st serve me, stay. A few 
There are who love me not, and might instil 
Wrong thoughts among the council. Doctor Hunt 
And you may serve me here, 

Rolfe. 

So be it then. 

Smith. 
With your good leave I will go forth at once. 

Ratlife. 
Are you accoutred for the task ? 

Smith, 

I am. 

Looking at his pistols. 

A little harmless powder strikes with awe 

The savage tribes. This {pointing to his sword) 

proves my trusty friend 
Should danger threaten ; and an axe to cut 
My way through pathless tangled brakes. 

Rolfe goes into the fort. The sun 

Will be my guide to Orapaks ; his beams 



156 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

In setting gild its rude abodes — so tells 
The Indian here. Rolfe returns with an axe and 
gives it to Smith. 

Thanks, friend. I "will not lag 
Upon the road. The wild grape and the stream 
Will feast me in my absence. Fare ye well 
Most worthy council, and my trusty friends. 
Ratliffe and Volday how. Hunt and Rolfe advance 
to say farewell. 

Hunt. 
Heav'n speed thee on thy errand. 

Smith. 

Rev'rend sir, 
Amen. Eodt. 

Ratlife. 

Now let us in, and feast this wild 
But friendly man, and after send him home 
Well pleased, laden with glitt'ring gifts to bear 
A good report of us among his tribe. 
They are conducting Mosco to the fort as the scene 
closes. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 157 



SCENE SECOND. 

The adjacent forest. Enter Volday. 

Volday. 
'Tis ever thus — in Britain — on the seas — 
And ROW in forests, still' this Captain Smith 
Is foremost in our council and our wars. 
No other name can gain a eulogy. 

Enter Rolfe, equipped for the chase. 

Rolfe. 
See — the sun shines bright on Smith's adventure. 

Volday. 
On Smith ! Is there no other brave bold man 
That he must be the burthen of each song ? 

Rolfo. 

For shame ! Thou lik'st him not, because, of all 

The lawless spirits here, (and they are many,) 

Thou art the hardest to control. Why man ! 

We are among an untaught race whom we 

Would make our friends. 
14 



158 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Volday. 

What then? 

Rolfe. 

Whatthen'^ 
Why thus — thou didst endeavour to defraud 
The Indians who first came to sell us ven'son. 
Thou would'st have robbed, not bartered. Captain 

Smith 
Made thee pay what with us values little, 
But is a treasure to the forest-bred. 
For this I grieve to see thou ow'st him grudge. 

Volday. 
What right has he to lord it o'er the rest ? 

Rolfe. 
The right of rank bestowed for service tried, 
The right of valour and integrity- 
Prudence, experience, generosity. 
Endurance and the pride of conscious worth. 
These give him right to rule o'er me, and thee. 

Volday. 
A man's opinions are as free as air. 
And I have mine. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 159 

Rolfe, 
But if they tend to ill 
Discard them, pray. We are a little band 
Amidst an unknown country, and should be 
United. Come, meet Smith on his return 
With friendship. I will try my sporting skill 
Till sunset. Fare you well. Exit, 

T'^olday. 

Young scatter brain ! 
Your boyish dreams of honour and desert 
Will ever keep your purse filled scantily. 
You aided Smith in public to disgrace 
My name. — I will bear friendship — in my looks. 
And wait the hour to crush ye both. 

Jfoise without. But hark ! 

Todkill rushes on much frightened. 
How now ? what ails thee ? speak ! 

Todkill, 
Speak! I've hardly breath, I've run so fast. 

Volday, 

Run ! wherefore ! why 
Dost tremble so ? Are foes at hand ? 



160 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

Todkill. 
I'll tell you, — only wait. Recovering himself. 
Master Ratliffe sent me into the forest for Master 
Rolfe — when two great glaring eyes looked out upon 
me from the thicket ; then I heard an angry growl. 
It was a wolf, or a bear, or one of those more hide- 
ous beasts you wise heads call a panther. 



You shot him dead. 



Oh no ! I ran away. 



Volday. 

Of course 



Todkill. 



Volday. 

Coward ! 



Todkill. 
No ! no ! I don't deserve that name. I've no 
objection to fair fight with men, but wild beasts are 
my particular aversion. 

Volday. 

Weak fool ! to let 
The brute escape, surrounded as we are 
By dangers. 



1 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 161 

Todkill. 
If you are so anxious, seek him out yourself ; and 
if he makes a mefaLof you, I don't think many will 
shed tears. 

Volday. 
Cease your senseless gossip ! 

Todkill 
Senseless ! umph ! If it was a hear, he'll have a 
fellow-feeling, and make friends with you. 

Volday, 
Psha! 
Exit angrily. Todkill laughs. 

Todkill. 
Ha, ha ! I think that I was even with him there. 
— ^I wonder where young Master Rolfe is gone. 

Francis enters. 
Ha! Francis! 

k . Francis. 

So, Todkill, no more work, at least to-day. 

It is to be a holiday. 

14* 

I 



162 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

TodHll 
Not before we want it. Such a life ! cutting 
down trees— chopping up trees— sawing — digging ! 
whew ! my arms ache at the recollection. 

Frajwis. 
Yes, the work is hard. 

Todkill 
Hard! Ay! I believe it is. And at night, before 
we can go comfortably to sleep, we must light fires 
to keep off— ugh ! the wild beasts. 

Francis. 
Yes, fires large enough to roast — 

TodHlL 
Roast ! don't talk of roasting ! Shall I ever see a 
joint of meat served up in a Christian way again, or 
go to sleep without the singing of those vile musqui- 
toes in my ears ! 

Francis, 
And then we cannot have a jovial bout forsooth, 
because the wine is doled out daily to us I 



OR, TWO^ CENTURIES AGO. 163 

Todkill. 
These savages — poor, ignorant, unhappy crea- 
tures, have no wine — no anything except tobacco 
— that's my only comfort here — to smoke a pipe- — 
for then I think of pretty Mistress Alice whom I left 
in England, and how comfortable I should be seated 
at home with her by a nice coal fire — a cup of 
mulled wine and a pipe by my side. That's com- 
fort, Francis. 

Francis. 

Comfort ! yes ! Harkye, you're a merry fellow, and 
if you will give your word to keep a secret — • 

Todkill. 
Close as the grave. What is it ? 

Francis. 
When poor Captain Smith gave out the wine 
yesterday, I stole a flagon, and here it is. Pro- 
ducing it. But mind, in confidence, I'll share it 
with you, before we go back to the fort. 



164 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

TodkilL 
Ah, Francis, you're a worthy soul. Here's the 
health of comely Mistress Alice. Brinks, 

Francis. 
Mistress Alice ! Brinks. 

TodkilL 
Bless her pretty face, I think I see it now. 
Brinks again, then gives the flask to Francis. 

Francis. 
Here's success to the new colony. Brinks. 

TodkilL 
Ah ! this forest life is very dreary. 

Francis. 
Well, you can return in the next ship. 

TodkilL 
No, I must stay with Master Rolfe, Heaven bless 
him ! I've known him since we were both little 
boys. He always stood up for me when I was in 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 165 

trouble ; — and in our merry game — Lord ! how he 
used to thump me — bless him ! I wouldn't leave 
him for the world. 

Francis. 
Well then, think of fame and money. 

TodJdll 
Yes, money's very well ; but as for fame, that's 
charming enough for Master Rolfe, who wants to 
live in story : I'd rather live in England, and die 

undistinguished. 

Oh, Mistress Alice ! Takes the flask and drinks. 

Francis. 
Console yourself with the adventures you can re- 
late on your return. They are going. 

Todkill. 
Ah! yes! How Alice will stare with astonish- 
ment ! I'll tell her all I've seen, and more too. 
Travellers, you know, are not bound to tell the 
truth ; if they were, their books wouldn't be half so 
entertaining. 

[Exeunt Todkill and Francis laughing. 



166 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 



SCENE THIRD. 

Powhatan's wigwam at Orapaks. A rude throne 
on one side. On the other a pile of huge stones. 
Powhatan enters from without, 

Powhatan. 

The sun has set, yet Pocahontas 

Returns not with the forest's blooming spoil. 

Why does she linger ? Hark ! it is her step. 

Pocahontas enters the wigwam, hearing a basket of 
wild fruit. 

My child is welcome. 

Pocahoritas. 

Pocahontas brings 
A dainty for her father's evening meal. 
Her task was shortened by surprising news, 
A weary wand'rer from that peaceful tribe 
The Paspaheghes, met her on the road. 
He says the pale-faced men whose homes are where 
The sun doth rise, are come unto our shores 
Once more, in their white-winged canoes. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 167 

Powhatan. 

The God 
Of ill rain curses — 

Pocahontas beseechingly. 
No! 

Powhatan. 

They come to seize 
The red man's lands — to slay — 

Pocahontas. 

Though some were false, 
My father will not judge all harshly. Think ! 
Even amongst our own and other tribes 
There oft are wicked and deceitful men — 
So may it be with these. Remember too, 
'Mongst those who landed here, and since went home 
O'er the big waters, years ere I was born, 
I've heard my father praise — ay ! more than one — 
Many for bravery stood eminent. 

Powhatan. 
Thy voice breathes kindness ever. Pocahontas 
Is her father's dearest child. 



168 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

PocaJiontas. 

And fondly 
She lov£S him. Were he meanest of the tribe 
She'd share with joy his base inglorious lot; 
But as he is a mighty chief and brave, 
She loves his glory dear as she loves him, 
And ever will entreat him not to cloud 
His fame by judgment harsh or cruelty. 
Enter Opachisco with the axe used by Smith in scene 
1st, followed by two Indians. 

Opachisco. 
Mighty chief! we have surprised a stranger ' 
Wand'ring near this wigwam. Not of our race 
Is he, though speaks he our tongue. We would 
Have seized and brought him hither, when aside 
He cast this tomahawk he held — 
(Pointing to the English axe.) and raised 

A short black wand — a flash gleamed in the air — 
The Spirit he invoked, 'mid smoke denounced 
Our rashness, and we fled ; but soon returned 
When he, great wizard, beckoned and besought 
To see the mighty Powhatan. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 169 

Powhatan, 

Ye fools! 
It was no Spirit, but a tool of war 
The pale-face fights with, as you arrows use. 
He is no wizard — Go, conduct him here. ^ 

Exeunt Opachisco and the other Indians. 

See, e'en as Pocahontas said, 'tis one of those 

Smith is conducted in by Opachisco and other Indians, 
He comes. What brings the pale-face here ? 

Smith. 
I am called Captain Smith. With other friends 
Just landed from a long and stormy voyage 
I came to seek Virginia's mighty king. 

Powhatan. 
Where are the white man's countrymen ? 

Smith, 

Upon 
The banks of thy broad river, Powhatan. 
They wait my coming with assurance fair 
Of amity from thee. A bond of peace 
15 



170 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

With presents rich I offer, and besides 
Bright beads and hatchets, tools of every kind, 
Arrow heads, glass, wrought iron, copper too. 
Your corn and ven'son taking in exchange. 

Powhatan. 
Powhatan will no treaty make — no peace — 
The pale-faced brethren come to spy — to seize 
His lands — to make his tribes their slaves — to bow 
Him down with tribute. 

Smith. 

Chief, you wrong me much, 
And wrong still more your father, England's king. 
Ambition, avarice, may be the curse 
Of some who sought your friendship to betray. 
My word is sacred as my bond. In deeds, 
As well as speech, I proffer amity. 

Powhatan^ surprised. 
Do young men speak in the pale-face's councils ? 
Where are their white-haired sages ? Powhatan 
Suspects them all ; and even now perhaps 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 171 

Their treach'rous band in ambush lurking near 
May spring upon us. One at least shall be 
Secure. He gives a signal and the Indians advance 

stealthily behind Smith, and prepare to seize him, 

directed by Opachisco. 

Pocah ontas springing forward. 
What means my father } 

Powhatan. 

Seize the stranger ! 
Before Smith has time to draw his sword the Indians 
spnng upon him and pinion his arms. Jifter a 
struggle, Smith is overcome and held down by the 
savages. 
He shall die! appeasing the Great Spirit 
Who then may drive all rash intruders hence. 
So — bind him hard — Opachisco does so. 

Smith, 
Yet hear me, savage chief! 

Powhatan. 
Plead not ! 'tis vain. 



172 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Smith, 

Plead! 'tis for thyself 
I'd speak. Beware the vengeance of my king. 
Plead ! never ! Death I fear not. I will meet 
Its stroke with firmness as a soldier should. 
My peace I trust is made above. My life, 
Risked for my country oft, is England's still. 

Powhatan. 

Prepare the instruments of death. 

{^Smithis led to the pile of stones and assisted to lie 
down with his head upon the stones. The In- 
dians bring their clubs.) 

Pocahontas. 

No ! No ! 
Will not my father spare him ? 

Powhatan. 

Get thee hence ; 
Our chiefs admit not women's counsels. 

Pocahontas. 

True. 
Poor Pocahontas is a woman ; but 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 173 

She's child of a great warrior and king — 
Of Powhatan, — and as she shares his blood, 
So may she share his counsels. 

Beseechingly. Let her stay ! 

Powhatan. 
Thou art the dearest daughter of the King; 
Provoke him not to wrath. Begone. 

Pocahontas. 

The voice 
Of mercy louder speaks than Powhatan. 

Powhatan. 
Thy father hates these strangers. — Mark me well. 
They came in numbers ere thyself wast born. 
Their deeds, their history, their conduct, then^ . 
To our tribes will ever be the same. 
The time will come they'll spread o'er all the land. 
Foul tyranny and rapine they'll return 
For friendly welcome and sweet mercy shown, 
Defrauding or exterminating still 
Our ancient race, until the red man's name 
Will live but in the mem'ry of the past, 
15* 



174 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Or in some exile powerless, who sells 
For a few ears of corn his father's land, 
Lord of that soil where then he'll beg a grave. 

Pocahontas. 
And should our race thus pass from earth away, 
The shame will not be theirs, but their oppressors, 
Who then, amidst the chronicles they keep, 
This act of mercy by a forest-king 
Full surely must record. Oh! spare him, father! 

Powhatan. 
Is Powhatan a woman, to be moved 
By tears ? The stranger dies. ( Tarns from her. 

Now, warriors, 
Obey your King. When thus I raise my arm, 
Dash out his brains ! 

The Indians brandish their clubs, 

Pocahontas. 
Rushing to her father. No ! No ! In mercy stay ! 
Perhaps he has a child in that far land — 
A babe just straying from its mother's arms — 
Both watching for his coming — praying too 
The Good Great Spirit to protect him still ! 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 175 

Powhatan^ incensed. 
Let women snatch from wolves the prey their fangs 
Have torn, but thwart not Powhatan. Begone ! 

Pocahontas, 
Think were my father captive far o'er seas — 
Thus doomed to die alone — no hand to save — 
His daughter helpless here in agony — 
For her sake, spare him ! 

Powhatan^ with terrible anger. 

Dare not speak again ! 
He dies. Away ! Goes up to his throne and raises 
his arm. Jit the same moment Pocahontas rushes 
to Smithy and clasps his head in her arms, laying 
her own head upon his, as the Indians are in the 
act of striking the blow, while 

Pocahontas exclaims. 
Then slay him thus ! 

Potohatan, 

Hold! Hold! 
The Indians pause. 



176 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

To Pocahontas, with surprise and admiration. 

Thou art a worthy daughter of thy race— 

A warrior's Spirit in a woman's form. 

Thou wilt not doubt the word of Powhatan. 

'Tis pledged. Pocahontas relinquishes her grasp of 
Smith and comes forward. To the Indians, 
Release the pale-face! — TJtey raise and unbind 
him. 

He is free • 

Pocahontas falls at the feet of Powhatan who stands 
upon his throne repelling Smithes expressions of 
gratitude. The Indians group around in wonder, 
and Opachisco points to the entrance, directing 
Smith'^s departure, as the curtain falls. 



END OF ACT I. 



1 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 177 



SECOND PERIOD 1609. 
ACT SECOND. 



SCENE FIRST. 



James Town. The same scene as the first of the 
play. The colonists discovered in various groups^ 
some reclining on the ground leaning against the 
trunk of a tree — some leaning on their usng — and 
all more or less feeble and haggard from the effects 
of famine, Ratlffe, Rolfe^ Volday, Todkill and 
Francis ^ are most prominent in the group. 

Rolfe. 
Look cheerly, friends ; we'll not despair as yet. 
Each hour brings hope of near arrival from 
The shores of dear old England. Come, bear up ! 

Volday. 
Bear up ! with famine's squalid frown upon 
Each face ! I say, away with this control. 



178 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

We're in extremity ; then let us try 
Each for himself — the strongest win the day. 
Break open all the stores, and let us make 
One jovial meal at least. 

Rolfe, 

A selfish counsel ; 
For there are many sick within the fort. 

* Volday. 

Let the sick die or heal — whiche'er they please. 
I say, break open all the stores. 

Rolfe, 

For shame ! 

Ratliffe. 
The ship is fit for sea. Why not set sail, 
(Those who are able,) to the nearest port, 
With what provisions yet we have — 

Rolfe. 

And leave 
The rest to perish by starvation here — 
Give up all prospects of the colony — 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 179 

Desert the post our country gave in charge ! 
No ! let us act like men ! I will not stir 
While there's a dog alive within the fort 
To make a meal of. 

ISmith enters from the fort. 

Ratliffe. 
With what strength we have 
Let's arm, and rush upon the savages, 
And seize whate'er we want. 

JYight begins to close in the scene. 

Smith, coming forward. 

A villain's thought ! 
Besides the tribes to us are scores to one : 
'Tis madness, Ratliffe. 

T^olday, to Ratliffe, Francis, and others. 
Come then, friends ; we will 
Provide for our own safety. On ! 

Rolfe, drawing his sword. 

By heav'n 
He dies that stirs ! — They pause. 

Friendsj comrades, ye will not 



ISO THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Selfish and reckless, crush the httle hope 
Of what a few days' fortitude may bring, 
And leave so many sick inchmeal to die ? 
Like brothers let us stand together ! 

Volday. 
No! 
Make way ! Advancing with Ratliffe, Francis and 
the rest. 

Smith whispers to Rolfe, who goes off hastily. 

Smith. 
Then hear me ! By Saint George ! If ye 
Will thus desert your comrades, — as ye pass, 
(For pass ye must,) within the cannon's range, 
With sakre-falcon and with musket shot 
I'll fire upon your pinnace, and I'll sink 
Ye all ! Volday levels a pistol at Smith. 

Ay, fire ! Young Rolfe will execute 
My plan ! Desert us if ye dare ! 

Distant shout. Hunt enters. 

Hunt. 

Joy! Joy! 
From Lady Pocahontas come her brave 



ii 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 181 

Young brother, and six Indians more, with stores 
Of food. 

A loud shout from all^ except Volday. 
Rolfe enters. 

Rolfe. 
Ay! Shout! and thank the Indian maid 
Who watches o'er our safety. — I bring news 
Of more good fortune. From the tallest tree 
Beyond the fort you may afar descry 
In gallant trim a ship that steers this way. 

Smith. 
Indeed! good news crowds in. On to the fort! 
A hearty meal to each, and then prepare 
To welcome all our countrymen. 

Ratliffe, to Smith. 

Come, friend. 
Give me your hand. I own I've been to blame. 

Smith. 
That cancels all. Grasps his hand. Hunt, Rolfe, 
Ratliffe and Smith confer together. Francis ap- 
proaches timidly. Smith beckons, and in action, 

expostulates with, and forgives him. 
16 



182 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Volday, apart. 

Were not these fools so tame, 
So swayed by Smith and Rolfe, I know that some 
Would back me in the strife. So let it be. 
The secret messages I've sent unto 
The savage king, have prospered, and he knows 
The fitting time for ambush and surprise. 
These patient victims then will fall, and I, 
Rewarded, honoured by the savages, 
In time in lawless luxury may live 
And reign amid these forests. 
Meanwhile Rolfe and his friends have been accosting 

the colonists and aiding the feehle to rise and 

approach the fort. 

Rolfe to Smith. 

I'll remain. 
For while my hungry comrades feed on what 
This Indian Ceres has bestowed, 'tis fit 
The outskirts of the forest here should not 
Be left unwatched. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 



183 



Smith. 
Thy caution is well-timed. 
Farewell awhile. To the colonists. 

Now follow to the fort. 
Exit Smith into the fort ^ followed by the rest tumul- 

tuously. Volday goes off slovdy. 
Rolfe takes up his gun which was resting against a 
tree. 

Rolfe alone. 
That I could see her ! Such a gentle maid 
Were pleasanter acquaintance in these wilds 
Than yon rough comrades. I am half in love 
Already with this forest-maid, and could 
I see her — Hark ! a step is rustling through the brake, 
Is't man or brute ? I'll climb this knoll and watch. 

He ascends and looks off. 
It is the panther's stealthy tread. I hear, 
But cannot see him. Looks through the branches of 

the tree. Stay ! Beneath the shade 

Of yon old tree an Indian girl reclines. 
I'll nearer steal. Advances nearer^ and starts with 

horror. Is she the panther's aim ? 



184 THE FOREST PRINCESS;^ 

Yes — there I see him. Look! he's crouching low, 
Unseen by her, on her recumbent form 
To spring. Now — Levelling his gun. 

Heaven nerve my arm ! 
Fires and looks off. Well shot ! 

The brute is down — the maid unhurt. 

With surprise. No shriek ! 

Yet 'tis a woman, and she comes this way. 

Pocahontas descends. 

Pocahontas. 

A gun ! the weapon of the pale-faces. - Sees him. 
Thou art the stranger whom the forest-maid 
Must thank. Within yon shady nook, where she 
A moment sat to rest her wearied feet, 
In death a panther lies : one instant more. 
Without thy aid, the death would have been hers, 
Not his. How^ shall the forest-maiden thank 
The stranger ? 

Bolfe. 

Nay, no thanks, sweet maid ; enough 
To have preserved thee ; mention it no more. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 185 

Pocaliontas. 
Had I been slain my warning had been lost. 
Time wears. The wanderer must not delay. 
Young brave, take thou this string of beaded shells, 
Despise it not. For show this token when 
Thy fair locks tremble in the red man's hand, 
His tomahawk will fall unstained to earth. 

Rolfe kneels to receive it. 
Whate'er thy peril, send the forest maid 
That little chain, her tribe will free thee straight. 

Rolfe. 
No sainted relic e'er was treasured more 
Than this shall be for sake of her who gave it. 
But may I ask the gentle donor's name .'' 

Pocahontas, 
Matoka is my name. Virginia's tribes 
Know me as Pocahontas. 

Rolfe. 

Princess! what! 

Our guardian angel ! She who saved the life 

Of Smith .? 

16* 



186 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Pocahontas. 
Thou know'st him ? 

Rolfe. 

He's my dearest friend. 
Pocahontas. 
Indeed ! Too long I've tarried. I must speak 
With Captain Smith, alone, and quickly too. 
My life is perilled by my stay. 
Volday enters from the fort, and retires observing 
them. 

Rolfe. 

Your life ! 

For him you risk it ? 

Pocahontas. 

Not for him, young brave, 
For peace and mercy's sake alone : but when 
In bonds expecting death I saw him stand, 
Compassion made us kin at once, and now 
Dear as a father is thy friend to me. 

Bolfe. 
Sweet maiden, would that / might share such love ! 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 187 

Pocahontas. 
More like my own brave brother is thy youth, 
And Pocahontas as a brother trusts thee. 
The time draws on. Oh haste ! 

Rolfe, 

This way, dear lady. 
Leads her into the fort. 

Volday advances. 

Volday. 
How's this ? An Indian girl conferring with 
Young Rolfe ! Are then my plans revealed ? 

Their words 
I scarce could catch. I'll follow to the fort : 
If aught I see betokens I'm betrayed 
I'll quick to Powhatan for refuge — yes — 
And spur the savage to attack at once. 

[Exit into the fort. 



188 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 



SCENE SECOND. 

Tfie intenor of the fort. 
Rolfe leads in Pocahontas. 

Rolfe, 
Princess, rest here ; I'll seek out Smith : meanwhile 
A rev'rend friend shall guard thee from intrusion : 
For see, he comes this way. 

Enter Hunt much agitated. 

Hunt. 
O woful news ! 
Brave Smith is wounded unto death. 

Rolfe. 

Oh heav'n ! 

Hunt. 
Still first in toil, he launched his skiff to meet 
His friends in boats fast pulling from the ship m\ 

That now, with England's flag displayed, hath cast 



OK, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 189 

Her anchor in the stream. A bag of powder 
That near him lay, by some mischance caught fire, 
Exploded, and the captain wounded lies 
In cruel suffering. 

Rolfe, 

Where is he ? 

Hunt. 

They 
Have borne him to the ship, where surgeon's care 
Is busy round him. 

Pocahontas. 
Then to ye must I 
Reveal my errand or 'twill be too late. 
First tell me where my noble brother is, — 
For I am Pocahontas. To Br. Hunt. 

Hunt. 

Gen'rous maid ! 
Thy brother and attendants, long ere this, 
Are safe at Orapaks. Their mission o'er, 
They left us instantly. 



190 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Pocahontas. 

Then they are safe. 
A villain lurks among th^ pale-faces 
Who hath betrayed ye all to Powhatan. 
With presents a few red men soon will come, 
And while ye feast, your weapons they will steal. 
And giving signal to the ambushed tribes 
Will massacre ye all. 

Rolfe. 
What fiend can thus 
Have sold us ? 

Pocahontas. 
Strangers, hearken unto me. 
Your faith, 'tis said, e'en more than ours, commands 
That ye should speak the truth. By all ye hold 

' Taking a hand of each. 
Most sacred and most terrible, I claim 
Your word to act as Pocahontas wills : 
In peace and pity, slaughter to prevent, 
I give this warning ; but whate'er betide, 
Ye must attempt no strife — in mercy act, 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 191 

Nor slay, nor harm the tribes of Powhatan. 
Ye promise this ? 

Hunt, solemnly. 

For Pocahontas' sake 
The council shall their honour pledge to this — 

Holfe, with equal solemnity. 
As we do ours. 

Pocahontas. 

Send one you can trust 
To Powhatan, and tell him you've received 
From o'er the waters, in that great canoe, 
Food, warriors, and arms. But name not me ! 
Oh haste I A salute is heard from the cannon of the 
fort, 

Rolfe. 
The Governor has landed. Worthy sir, 
Go seek our countrymen. Let all be done 
In strict obedience to this maiden's will. 

Hunt, to Pocahontas, 
May heaven ever bless thee for this act ! 

[Exit Hunt. 



192 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Pocahontas. 
Farewell, young brave. Ere dawn I must again 
Within my father's wigwam be. 

Rolfe, 

Return 

Without repose that distance through the woods 

On foot ? 

Pocahontas, 
The forest-maids can travel far 
Untired. 

Rolfe. 
Thou wilt miss the way. 

Pocahontas. 

We see 
Unfailing land-marks in the trees and stars ; 
Nor e'er forget a path we once have trod. 

Rolfe. , 
But darkness will surround thee. 

Pocahontas. 

The Good Spirit 
Will see and guard me then. Farewell. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 193 

Jlnother salute is fired. Hunt enters^ showing in 
Sir Thomas Dale, preceded by Ratliffe, Volday, 
Francis, and followed by the other colonists and a 
guard of honour. 

Hunt — pointing to Pocahontas. 
This is the princess who hath twice preserved 
This colony from famine and from death. 
Day is seen to break through the windoios of the fort. 

Dale. 
Her plans we've followed, and her message now 
We send to Powhatan. To Volday. 

No moment waste, 
But swiftly seek the king, and strongly paint 
Our re-inforcing strength. 

Volday, obsequiously. 
Doubt not my zeal 
Or aptness for the task. 

Apart. Fate seems to aid 

And hasten my revenge. Bows and exit. 

17 



194 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Dale. 
Princess, no arm 
Shall 'gainst your tribes be raised. You're welcome 
here. 

Pocahontas. 
The red king's child will seek her father now. 
Yet would she learn if Smith still lives. 

Dale. 

He does. 
And prays to bid thee, Master Rolfe, farewell. 
Ratline goes up to Sir Thomas^ and talks with him, 
pointing to Pocahontas, Rolfe and Hunt. 

Rolfe. 
First let me tend thee, princess, on thy path. 

Pocahontas. 
No, no ; farewell ! And when thou seest my father, 
The stranger he will love who saved his child. 

Rolfe. 
Thy bidding I obey. But soon I trust 
We'll meet again. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 195 

Dale^ advancing. 
And thou, good Doctor Hunt, 
Go, sooth Smith's dying pillow with thy prayers. 

Hunt. 
An old man's blessing be with thee, sweet maid. 
[Exeunt Rolfe and Hunt. 

Dale to Ratliffe, 
My friend, your counsel is most excellent. 

Pocahontas. 
Strangers, farewell. Going. 

Ratliffe intercepting her. 
Rudely. You pass not here young girl. 

Pocahontas^ with dignity. 
I am a warrior's daughter, and am called 
Virginia's princess. Stranger, stand aside. 

Bale, 
All courtesy we'll shew thee, lady, but 
Thy father's peace and friendship we would gain 
By this one act. 

He gives a signal and each entrance is guarded. 



196 



THE FOREST PRINCESS; 



Pocahontas. 

The child of Powhatan 
Ye will not keep a prisoner ? 

Dale. 

But until 
Her father signs a peace Pocahontas starts hut in- 
stantly recollects herself. You deem this strange ; 
Policy demands this step. 

Pocahontas. 

No policy 
Doth Pocahontas know, save justice. She 
Hath succoured ye, for she believed ye friends: 
But if your arms should e'er be levelled 'gainst 
Her race, mark well ! her country's foes are hers. 

Ratliffe. 
Why should we trust her tale ? We have no proof 
The peril she announced was really near. 

Pocahontas 
Powhatan's daughter is no mocking-bird. 
Her voice sings but one strain, and that is truth. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 197 

Dale. 



Fear not. 



Pocahontas. 
I am a warrior's child, and know 
No fear. 

Ratliffe. 
And yet thine eye is moist. Thy hand, 
Though clenched, doth tremble. 

Pocahontas. 

The red woman's soul 
Is strong, although her frame be weak. 

Dale. 

A chair ! 
Francis bnngs down a chair. 
Here rest thee, lady, while the plans I tell 
Of England's king, thy Father, in whose name 
I speak. 

Pocahontas waving back Francis 
" The sun's my father, and the earth 

My mother : on her bosom I'll repose 

17* 



198 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

When I have need of rest." — If I must stay 
Within your wigwam, solitude at least 
A maiden and a princess may command. 

Dale. 

Lady, thy haughty wish shall be obeyed. 

To Hatliffe and Francis. 

Conduct her in. The doors of an inner room are 
thrown open. 

Ratine. 
Hope no escape — the fort 
Is closely guarded. 

Pocohontas looks at him with suppressed contempt 
and turns to Francis. 

Pocahontas. 

I will follow thee. 

Dale. 
Thou hast a bold heart, lady. 

Pocahontas. 

Though alone, 
I'm not defenceless. The Great Spirit's eye 
Sleeps never, and His ear is never closed. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. > 199 

Apart. 
Father and brother, ye shall find me true : 
From these I'll hide my grief; but once alone, 
I'll quench my fire in tears. Going. 

Bale to Ratliffe. 

Now to send news 
To Powhatan touching the chance we've seized 
To twhart his treachery. 

At that worp. Pocahontas turns round hastily. 

Pocahontas. 

In a daughter's ear 
Who dares to breathe that word against her sire } 
To free his country from invaders' tread 
He tries the arts his rugged life has taught. 
Ye blame the red man, yet adopt his wiles. 
Why do ye practise treachery, deceit. 
Trampling on hospitable gratitude 
By thus constraining me ? Oh shame ! The stream 
Of patriot love flows in my father'' s heart, 
Though shadowed so* by dark enlacing woods, 
The Sun of mercy cannot always pierce 



200 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Their thick unwholesome gloom. — No such excuse 

Is yours : for from the current of your souls 

The Tomahawk of Ages has hewn down 

All that impeded the pure light of heaven ! 

She is going in, while the Governor and his party 

stand in mute surprise. TJie doors are closed upon 

her. Dale and his friends exeunt. 



SGENE THIRD. 

The forest near James Town. In the distance the 
waters of the swamp are seen through the woods. 
Clumps of trees in the foreground at the foot of a 
declivity. Daylight^ 

Enter Hunt and Rolfe, 

Bolfe. 

Cruel mischance ! 

Hunt. 
Unfortunate, that ere we reached the bank, 

The boat was on her way. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 201 

Rolfe. 

Ah ! much I fear 
Some ill is plotting, and the message giv'n, 
A deep-laid scheme. 

Hunt. 

Here's Francis. 
Francis enters hastily. 

Francis. 

In the fort 
You both are wanted. The young princess is 
Detained a hostage till her father comes 
To sign a peace. 

Rolfe. 

Oh shame and treachery ! 

Francis. 
You, Doctor Hunt, she'd speak with. Lose no time. 

^Exit Francis. 

Rolfe. 
Base poHcy ! I'll go remonstrate with — 



202 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Hunt, detaining him. 

Stay ! Even my grey hairs would fail to gain 
For me a hearing. How much less couldst thou ! 
Let old experience check thy youthful wrath. 
Calm thee, my son. Come on. They are going, 
Volday enters and intercepts them, 

Volday. 

Stay yet awhile. 
You pass not here, good youth. 

Rolfe. 

Who'll stay me ? 

Volday, drawing his sword, 
I! 
Resist not. I have those at hand whose darts 
Ne'er miss their aim. 

JRolfe. 

Thou art the traitor then ! 
Hunt is restraining him. 
Hold me not, worthy sir; forbearance now 
Were cowardice. Draws his sword. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 203 

Volday sarcastically. 
Chivalrous youth ! Stand back : 
The odds are desperate — 

He gives a signal and a number of Indians ^ armed^ 
start forth from behind the trees and mounds. 

Behold ! 

Bolfe, 

Villain! 
Detain me not. He endeavours to pass Volday who 
rushes upon him — they fight. Hunt has drawn 
his swordj but has been almost instantly seized by 
two savages. Volday is about to slay Bolfe, when 
Powhatan appears followed by Opachisco and 
other savages. 

Powhatan. 

Desist ! Shed not the blood 
Of thine own people. Powhatan demands 
His scalp-lock. Approaches Rolfe with his toma- 
hawk to execute his i7itention when he sees the chain 
around Rolfe^s neck. 

Pale-face ! whence that token ? Speak ! 
No English hand hath wrought it. 



204 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Rolfe. 

By thy child, 
If thou art Powhatan, 'twas given. 

Powhatan. 

Rise : 
Thou and thy friend pass free. 
The Indians release Hunt. That token is 
A pledge of faith, which by a red man ne'er 
Was broken or forgot. 
Volday advances menacingly. 

Molest them not. 
On peril of thy life. 

Rolfe. 

Thanks, savage chief! 

Powhatan. 
Return not to the fort, for there I plan 
Destruction. 

Hunt. 
Know you not your hopes are foiled ? 
Each outlet guarded, — food and arms supplied, 
By troops in ships now landed ? 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 205 

Powhatan wonderstruck. 

What? 

Hunt pointing to Volday. 

I heard Sir Thomas Dale that villain charge 
To bear this news to thee. 

Rolfe. 

He speaks the truth 

Volday y sullenly. 
He does. I own it. 

Powhatan, 

Double traitor ! Yes, 
False to thy countrymen, and false to me. 

Volday. 
I sought revenge — as thou dost, Powhatan. 

Powhatan. 
The red man wars with strangers, enemies : 
But thou wouldst slay thy brothers. Such excuse 
Blackens still more thy deed. 

18 



206 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Volday is about to speak. 

Silence ! They most 
Who profit by a traitor's arts, despise, 
E'en while they use him. 

To Rolfe. Stranger, speak ! my child 

Has left her father's home. When did she give 
That pledge ? 

Rolfe. 
Last night within the fort, where now 
She is detained a hostage. 

Powhatan. 

There ! my child ! 
And but for thee might Powhatan ere this 
Have given signal for the darts to slay 
His daughter ! 

To Volday. Monster ! didst thou seek to wade 
Through Pocahontas' blood to vengeance ? 

To the Indians. Braves, 

Away with him to death ! 

Volday darts through the trees. Pursue him ! Though 
Your speed o'ertake him not, your arrows will. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 207 

A party of Indians headed hy Opachisco rush in pur- 
suit of Volday^ shouting the warwhoop, 
Ratlife enters with white flag, 

Ratliffe, 
Virginia's king, of thy child's freedom now 
I come to treat. 

Powhatan. 
Inform the white man's chief 
How great soe'er the ransom, Powhatan 
Will pay it, and here offers all the arms 
In traffic bought — and seven pale-faced menj 
Captured near Orapaks, and pris'ners now, 
With corn five hundred measures, for his child. 

Ratliffe. 
I'll bear your message, chief. But say, are these 
Your pris'ners too ? Points to Rolfe and Hunt, 

Powhatan. 

No, they are free. Depart, 
Young brave, seek and protect my child. 



208 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

Rolfe. 

While life 
Remains. Till in thy arms again she rests 
I'll guard her with a brother's jealous care. 
Exeunt Rolfe and Hunt, 

Itatliffe, 
With speed, great chief, I will return and bring 
The governor's reply. 

Powhatan. 

Here, Powhatan 
Will wait for thee. Exit Ratliffe. 
Opacliisco enters followed by the Indians, 

Opachisco. 

Great king ! we fast pursued 
The stranger. Thick our arrows round him flew. 
In the dark waters of the swamp he plunged, 
Nor could we trace him more. 

Powhatan. 

There let him drown, — 
Or starve, if he have reached the bank.. — 'Tis well. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 209 

Opachisco retires up the stage. 
Reflecting. 
More ships — arms — food — more men! 'Tis vain to 

strive. 
Like swollen streams they gain upon the land, 
And one day will possess it. Yes, I hear 
My father's prophesying spirit speak 
In the low moanings of the forest trees : 
He bids me end a struggle useless now : 
The red man's portion is — decay ! Your voice, 
Brave father, whispers ! Powhatan obeys. 
Retires and leans against a tree, surrounded by the 
Indians, — some reposing, — others listening for the 
envoy^s returning footsteps. The scene closes. 



18^ 



210 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 



SCENE FOURTH. 

The interior of the Fort. 
Sir Thomas Dale enters attended by Rolfe^ Hunt, 
Francis, Todkill, and all the colonists, meeting 
Ratliffe who enters with a white flag. 

Dale. 
Returned so soon ? 



^e. 

I gave the king your answer, 
That lasting peace alone could free his child. 
He answered not : with hundreds in his train, 
He followed, and now stands without the fort. 
He asks a pledge that if he enters here 
He may depart unharmed. 

Dale. 

Go, master Rolfe, 
And in our monarch's name a promise give 
Of safety, and with def'rence due, conduct 
Him here. 
Rolfe exits with Ratliffe and a guard of honour. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 211 

To his attendants. 
From yon recess, bring forth the deeds 
And gifts prepared to please this forest king. 
They bring forth a large table on which are pens, ink 
and paper, A large deed closely written on parch- 
ment and sealed with the Royal arms of England. 
A sceptre. A crown upon a cushion. And a 
regal robe. 

'Tis well. 

A flourish of trumpets. 

Behold, the savage chieftain comes. 
Enter Rolfe Ratliff^e, and the guard, escorting Pow- 
hatan, Opachisco, and other Indians. 
Virginia's king, we give thee greeting from 
Thy father, England's monarch. 

Powhatan. 

The red man 
Has come to seek his child. 

Dale, 

She's safe and well ; 
She'll come anon. Our royal master sends 
Across the^seas by me his greeting. 



312 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Powhatan, looking round. 

Where 
Is he, called Captain Smith ? 

Bale, 

An accident 
Detains him in our ship ; no surgeon's aid, 
Though it may mitigate, can cure his wounds, 
Unless he should return to England's shores. 

Powhatan, 
Then Powhatan is sorry. Smith is brave : 
The red man honours a brave enemy. 

Bale, 
A friend, I trust, as we all soon shall be. 
We come in peace to settle in this land. 

Powhatan. 
And why ? Across the waters are there not 
Broad plains where you may dwell? The Great 

Spirit 
To his red children gave these hunting-grounds. 
There is not room for us and you. Ye will 



1 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 213 

Extinguish our council-fires — destroy 

Our stony chronicles and trample down 

The mounds 'neath which our sage's bodies rest. 

The red men love their fathers' graves. 

Dale, 

Nor will 
Our nation reverence them less. We hope 
In amity to dwell. Our monarch doth 
Confirm thee in thy titles and thy state, — 
King of Virginia and its many tribes. 
In proof whereof these robes, this sceptre, and 
This crown, — Francis and an attendant advance with 
the robe and sceptre — Rolfe approaches with the 
crown. 

Symbols of rank with English kings 

He sends to thee, and representing him 

I'll place it on thy brow. All present except Sir 

Thomas, take off their hats. Sir Thomas takes 

the crown in his hands, and approaches Powhatan. 

Kneel, Powhatan ! 

Powhatan. 
Forbear ! Powhatan never bends his knee, 



214 



THE FOREST PRINCESS 



But standing, prays to Him Who, of all creatures, 
Made man, alone, erect. The crown doth give 
No rank to him who was a king before. 
I take these gifts as proofs of friendship from 
The white man's chief. 

Takes the crown and gives it to Opachisco. The 
other gifts are placed in the hands of the Indians. 

Such wealth as Powhatan 
Can give in gold, or pearls, or silver, and 
Whatever else the red man's skill can make, 
Bear to your king my brother back from me. 
W^here is my child. Suspiciously. 

Dale. 
We'll send for her anon. 



Powhatan. 
Let her come now. Virginia's chief will make 
No treaty till he sees his child. 



1 



Dale. 

Conduct 
The princess hither, worthy Master Rolfe. 



ORj TWO CENTURIES AGO. 215 

Exit Rolfe, 
The treaty now, great chief. , Offers it, 

Powhatan, Still resolved. 

Powhatan waits 
To see his daughter. 

Bale. 

Look ! she comes ! 

Rolfe leads Pocahontas from the inner room. 

She runs to her father. 

r Powhatan. 
Together. ^ My child ! 

' Pocahontas. 

Powhatan. ^ 
Yes, 'tis she unharmed, quite safe ! 

Pocahontas. 
Does Pocahontas see her father once 
Again ! Alone, imprisoned, terror filled 
Her heart. But all is well. He's here! Till now 
She never knew how much she loved her own 
Dear father. 



My father ! 



216 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Powhatan^ rapturously. 
Powhatan's joy ! his treasure ! 
Recollecting himself. 
Stand from me, child. Let not men see a brave 
To woman turn. A tear had almost dimmed 
The warrior's sight. 

Hunt. 
Then check it not. My friends 
Will not revere thee less. The glist'ning tear 
Of sweet affection in a parent's eye 
Is jewel for an angel's diadem. 

Powhatan. 
Why came my child among the pale-faces ? 

Pocahontas. 
With one arm twined round her father ^ she lays her 
other hand upon his tomahawk, and looks appeal- 
ingly in his face. 
To blunt the tomahawk, points to Hunt. 

Much kindness has 
This good man shown. Turning to Rolfe. 

This youthful brave, the friend 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 217 

Of Smith, preserved thy daughter when she lay 
Within the panther's spring. 

Powhatan. 

In deeds, not words, 
Her father thanks him. The young brave shall be 
A son to Powhatan. Giving his hand. 
Rolfe hows respectfully over it. 

Bale. 

Virginia's king, 
Now wilt thou make the treaty ? 

Powhatan^ with firm dignity. 

Yes.— 

Dale. 

'Tis here, 
By England's monarch signed and sealed. 

To you 
It shall be given. 

Powhatan. 
Take this wampum belt. 
The pledge of faith. f< Around the council-fire 
19 



218 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

We'll smoke the calumet of friendship — deep 

Inter the tomahawk, and o'er it plant 

The tree of peace, beneath whose spreading shade 

Our children's children fondly shall entwine 

Their arms together." 

Gives the belt and takes the treaty. 

We are brothers now. 

Dale, and all the colonists. 
Long live King James and long live Powhatan! 
Flourish of trumpets. 

Hunt, advancing. 
Now hear me. If this peace ye would cement, 
There is a way to make it last for aye. 
This youthful pair, by providential hap 
Together thrown, have read each other's hearts, 
And found the same fond characters in each. 
Let Powhatan his princess wed unto 
Young Master Rolfe, and in that marriage, strife 
Will die forever. 

Rolfe. 
It were happiness 
Too great for me to hope. 



OB, TWO CENTURIEri AGO. 219 

Dale. 

Without demur 
I speak my sovereign's approbation. What 
Does Virginia's king reply ! 

Powhatan. 

The pale face 
Is brave and young — he saved my daughter's life. 
But he will take my child away, unto 
His wigwam o'er the waters. 
Pocahontas clings fondly to Powhatan. 

Powhatan 
Is no weak woman — he's a warrior brave — 
But Pocahontas is his dearest child, — 
He cannot spare her. 

Rolfe. 

'Tis my wish to build 
My home beside Virginia's flowing streams. 

Powhatan. 
So be it then. The red man's king consents. 
The birds, when fledged, go forth — they meet their 
mates, 



220 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

And ne'er unto the parent nest return — 

'Tis nature's law. My child shall speak her thought. 

If Pocahontas loves the stranger — well — 

If not, she shall not wed him. Powhatan 

Will still keep faith with England. 

Dale, 

Then what says 
The princess ? 

Rolfe, advancing to her. 
Lady, speak ! 

Pocahontas, 

The red man's child 
Will ne'er desert her father's autumn days. 

Rolfe. 
E'en shouldst thou visit England, brief would be 
Our stay. For all my race are not like these 
In iron clad, embrowned by foreign suns, 
With voices striving 'gainst the billow's roar. 
No — there are hundreds skilled in graceful wiles 
To win a maiden's heart. Couldst thou with them 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 221 

Compare my plain address, I fear thou wouldst 
Repent thy choice. 

Pocahontas. 

Such doubt wrongs Pocahontas. 
Whene'er a forest-maiden gives her heart, 
Around her the Great Spirit casts a spell ; 
Before her eyes, the husband of her soul, 
Even while absent, ever seems to stand. 
And from her sight shuts out all other men. 

Hunt. 
That faith is worthy of a holier creed. 

Retires and confers with Powhatan and Bale. 

Pocahontas. . 

'Tis Pocahontas who has most to fear. 
Unlike the fair-haired maids, she has not learned 
Those small strange characters of wondrous power 
Pointing to the treaty in Powhatan^s hands. 
That speak without a voice. Thou'lt blush to shew 
The fair-faced dames an untaught bride. 
19* 



222 THE FOREST I'RINCESS ; 

Rolfe. 

Had I 
A soul so mean I should deserve to blush 
At my own baseness. I have little lore, 
Save what my parents early made me con : 
To use plain honesty in speech and act — 
To share my purse with those who want it. Still 
To love my native land and fight for her 
When needed — ne'er to yield, or triumph o'er 
The fallen — to protect woman whene'er 
Oppressed — and love her too. If thou canst prize 
Such simple precepts and a faithful heart 
I give them princess, with my hand. Oh speak ! 

Pocahontas. 
Powhatan's daughter will not hide her thought. 
No harm can surely dwell in that which gives 
Such happiness and joy. Stranger, thy wife 
Will Pocahontas be. Timidly laying her hand in his, 

Rolfe, 
My life shall speak 
My thanks. Kisses her hand. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 223 

Hunt^ pointing to Pocahontas. 
To such a heart the Christian faith 
Must penetrate and spread conviction there. 
Virginia's king, and you who represent to Dale. 
The majesty of England, go with me. 
Within the humble Chapel of this fort 
Our Church's rites shall make these lovers one : 
The first of the two nations joined as yet 
In wedlock's sacred bonds. 

Dale. 

This deed unites 
In peace and love the Old World and the New. 

Powhatan. . 
Young brave, I give thee here my daughter's hand, 
Nor shalt thou take her dowerless. The king 
Of Powhatan's twelve tribes can send his child 
Well portioned to the stranger's wigwam. Thou 
Wilt love, protect her, when her father's eyes 
Are closed, her kindred driven from the earth, 
As soon they will be, 'neath the crushing strides 
Of thy vast nation. And when Powhatan, 



224 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Like a true brave, his death-song calmly sings, 
Amid his greatest feats of war, he'll proudly boast 
His richest trophy was his daughter's love. 
Joins their hands. Rolfe and Pocahontas kneel. 
Powhatan lays his hand upon Pocahontas^s head. 
The other characters group around them. A flourish 
of trumpets^ as the curtain falls. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 225 



I 



THIHD PERIOD. 1617. 
ACT THIRD. 

SCENE FIRST. 

A street in London j on one side a tavern, with the 
sign "The Arquebus." 

« Anas Todkill, Vintner." 

Enter Volday, miserably clad, and weak from priva- 
tion and fasting. 

Volday, 
Is this to be my doom ? Exhausted, faint, 
To die of want and poverty ! Abroad 
For months alone I lived amid the woods 
In sufF'ring, till an artful tale obtained 
My passage in a Spanish ship. Since then 
Each pang of wretchedness I've known ! 'Tis strange 
A will unscrupulous and stalwart arm 
Combined, should lack employment. Curses shrink 



226 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

That child of fortune, Smith ! He ever was 
My bane. He hath at last recovered from 
His wounds, I hear, and is in London. Oh ! 
What pangs acute shoot through my heart ! 

Looking off. Who comes ? 

Enter Captain Smithy looking around him. 

Smith 
Sure, I have missed the street ; and yet he said — 

Seeing Volday, accosts him. 
Friend, canst thou guide me to — 

T^olday, apart. 

Great Heaven ! 

Smith surprised. 

What! 
Changed as he is, 'tis sure the Switzer, Volday. 

Volday. 
You know me, captain ? 

Smith, 
Though four years have passed 
I recognize thy face. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 227 

Volday^ bitterly. 

Fra somewhat changed 
From what I w^as in wild America — 
For there I dared to brave thee, noble captain. 

Smith. 
Tut, man ! those days are past. I had forgot 
Thy mad rebellion. I no malice bear 
To living soul, and least of all to old 
Companions sunk into misfortune. Go, 
Forcing money into his hand, which Volday takes 

unwillingly. 
Supply thy wants ; soldiers should share their purse. 
Retires looking around him. 

Volday. 
What ! more humiliation ! But that weak, 
Tyrannous nature craves some sustenance, 
Pd hurl his alms in anger back. 

Looks off. Who's here ? 

The comely master Rolfe ! What, do I meet 
Each of my foes at once ! Curses o'ertake 
And cling to me if I forgive them ! 

Retires observing them. 
Smith advances to meet Rolfe as he enters. 



228 THE FOREST PRINCESS ; 

Smith. 

Rolfe ! 

Rolfe. 
My honoured friend, a thousand welcomes. 

Smith, 

I 

Have loitered here to meet you, for I missed 
My way but now. How doth your gentle wife ? 

Rolfe, 
Well, I would hope ; and yet her slender form 
Daily more fragile grows. A life of bliss 
So radiant cannot last. — Much I rejoice 
At your return. 

Smith. 

I came to speed you on 
Your voyage to-morrow to Virginia's shores. 

Rolfe. 

Come, pledge our welcome meeting here. This house 

Affords good wine. Thou know'st the owner well : 

An honest vintner — our companion once. 

They ^o into the tavern. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 229 

Volday, advancing. 
Returning to Virginia — wealthy— safe ! 
I yet may mar your projects. 

Exit into tavern. 



SCENE SECOND. 

Interior of the Arquebus, denoting 'wealth and 
comfort. A casement at the hack, through 
which passers-ly are seen, before they enter at the 
door. A long settle at the bach near the door. 
A cabinet between the door and window. On 
one side of the stage is a table with wine cups 
and flagons, at which four guests are seated 
carousing. On the other, are a table and two 
chairs. 

Todhill and two draivers are attending upon the 
guests. 

Todkill, bustling about. 

You say truly, neighbour Varney : it was desperate 

cold that night. I remember it well. 

Smith and Rolfe enter, Todkill bows. 
20 



230 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Smith, 

Ah ! well met, 
Master Todkill. Offers his hand, 

Todkill taking it with deference. 
Captain, your notice honours me. 

Rolfe, 
Well old friend, how fare you ? 

Todkill. 
Never better, master, never better. I'm more 
expert at chalking down reckonings than cutting 
down trees — can draw a cup of wine more easily 
than a sword, — and like loading my <« Arquebus" 
here, better than trying to shoot a live stag for my 
dinner. You take, Master Rolfe. 

Rolfe, smiling. 
I do. 



Smith. 
How's this ? No hostess yet ? 

Todkill. 
In good time, worthy Captain. Mistress Alice 



^ 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 231 

waits with all duty upon Lady Rolfe, and only 
delays our marriage till her departure. 

Smith. 

Much joy 
To you, old friend. 

TodkilL 
I thank you, Captain. 

During the previous dialogue^ Volday has entered. 
The drawer expostulates with him — he offers 
money — and after some hesitation^ the man 
taJces the coin, brings Volday a large cup of 
tuine — points out the settle — Volday sits and 
drinks observing Smith and Rolfe, 

Rolfe. 
Good Anas, here, a flagon 
Of your best wine. 

TodJdll. 
Directly, Master Rolfe. He brings a salver with 
flagon and cups, and places it on the vacant table. 
Rolfe and Smith seat themselves. The king, I say 



232 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

it with all reverence, drinks no better. What else, 
good gentlemen ? 

Rolfe. 
Naught else, my friend. 

Todhill sees Volday and appears to reprove the 
drawer for having ad7nitted Mm — then goes 
lusily among the other guests, still noticing 
Volday, Rolfe fills glasses. The King 

And royal Charles. 

Smith. 
No news from Raleigh yet ? 

Rolfe. 
A vessel from Guiana brought to-day 
Despatches to the king. Prince Henry's death 
Lost Raleigh a firm friend, whom he will need 
When he returns, I fear. 

Smith. 

Not if he thrives. 
Success is always faultless; most of all 
In royal eyes. Here's Raleigh's health. 



I 



I 



I 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 233 

Rolfe, 

With all 
My heart. They drinks 

Smith. 
The Lady Pocahontas. 

Rolfe. 

Thanks. 
They drink again. 
Shall we ne'er see thee wedded, Captain ? 

Smith. 

No. 
Renown and arms are still my only love. 
When wrecked on Gallia's coast, a woman nursed 
And succored me. Enslaved in Tartary, 
A woman freed me. In America, 
The Lady Pocahontas twice preserved 
My life at peril of her own. None more 
Can honour woman than the man who thus 
In ev'ry clime finds her his guardian angel. 

Todhill advances to meet Newton ivho enters the 

tavern. 

20* 



234 

TodkilL 
Welcome, neighbor, you are late. 

JYewton, 
Yes. I had great difficulty in making my way 
through the streets. Every one is out of doors 
listening to the news. 

TodkilL 
What news ? The group at the table listen eagerly, 

Newton. 
Very bad. Master TodkilL Sir Walter Raleigh's 
expedition has failed, his brave son has been killed, 
and Sir Walter is now on his way to answer for his 
conduct to the king. 

Rolfe^ rising. 
My friend, I pray, explain more fully. Speak ! 
Hast thou further tidings ? Smith rises also. 

JYewton. 
Nay, master. I know no more than this which 
I gathered from the gossip round me. 
Bows and goes up to talle. TodMll gives Mm a 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 235 

vacant chair , and converses with him and the 
other guests. The drawer fills their cups- 
They drinh. 

Smith. 

Ah, poor Raleigh ! 

Rolfe. 
I dread the worst ; for Spain's ambassador, 
All potent now with James, will work his fall. 
My father honoured Raleigh, and his fame 
First roused adventure in my boyish heart. 

Smith. 
Be cautious in your words. King James, I know, 
With eye suspicious looks on you. 



Rolfe. 



The king ! 



Absurd ! What grounds — 



Smith. 
They take their hats. Are you not wedded to 
Virginia's princess "^ heir to crown and lands 
Of Powhatan ? 



236 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Rolfe^ smiling. 
James has no cause for fear. 

Smith. 
Yet be more wary in thy praise of Raleigh. 

Rolfe. 
Fool-hardy is that man, 'tis true, who thrusts 
Unasked opinion in the ears of those 
Who wish him ill ; but 'tis a coward's heart 
That praises not his friend as cordially 
In peril as in triumph. 

Smith. 

Rolfe! thy hand!— 
Now farewell for awhile. They approach 
The door together. But at thy house 
We meet again at noon. 

Rolfe and Smith exeunt. Smith is seen to pass the 
casement. Volday is concealed by the open door 
as Todkill shews them out. Volday advances. 

Volday. 
Most fortunate. I have o'erheard enough. 
After long fasting, wine hath fevered me. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 237 

No matter, if it gives me strength to work 
My plot. Now quick — here, Host, more wine. 

Todkill, advancing. 
What did you call for ! 

Volday. 

More wine ! 
Pen, ink, and paper. Never stand, man ! here, 
Fve that will pay the reck'ning. Gives money, 

Todkill 
You shall have it, although your money and your 
dress don't suit each other, friend. 

Volday. 

Make haste ! 
The drawer brings wine, Todkill brings writing 
implements from the cabinet. Volday sits at 
the table Rolfe has quitted ; and drinks fre- 
quently. 

Todkill. 
I'm coming, friend. There's a scrivener lives 
next door. Shall I send for him ? 



238 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Volday, 
A scrivener ? No. Writes during TodJdlVs speech, 

TodkilL 
No ofTence I hope ; but one don't look for such 
accomplishments in your condition. Looking at 
him. You are a ready scribe ; and write as fair a 
hand as the young master who just now left us. 
Volday looks up. Well, you need not stare. You 
know him surely, for you watched him narrowly 
enough. 

Volday^ apart. 

The meddling fool ! did he 
Observe me ? Finishes and folds the letter. Pours 
out the last drop from the flagon. 

TodkilL 
Shall I send the letter ? 

Volday, 
No ! Rises and sinks hack, 

TodkilL 
What's the matter ? 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 239 

Volday. 
Nothing. Drains the cup. 

Give me more wine. 

TodHlL 

My conscience won't let me. You look wild 
enough already. A hearty meal you shall have, 
and welcome, at my expense too : but no more 
wine. 

Volday^ seizing him. 
Thou babbler ! give me wine ! 

Releases him from exhaustion. 

Todkill, terrified. 
Stay! Stay! I'm a peaceable man. I'll get it 
you. Going slowly. I'll wager my new jerkin 
against his rags, it is that rascal Volday. 

Volday. 

The fool speaks truth : 
The fire is in my pulse and in my brain. 
Now let me read this o'er. 

Reads half aloud. « Raleigh's friend — 



240 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Rolfe — seeks Virginia's crown — conspires 'gainst 
The throne — Raleigh's confederate"^so — 
Continues reading to himself, 

Todkilly apart. 
That letter bodes no good, I'll swear. I know 
him though he don't remember me — the sour-look- 
ing rogue. I'll follow and see where he goes to. 
And if I can spoil any villany he's after, I'll do it 
as sure as my name's Anas Todkill. Gives direc- 
tions to the drawer who brings him his hat. 

Volday, closing the letter, 
'Twill do. This nameless missive to the king 
Shall go. Rolfe's ruin will involve his friend. 
Together must they fall. — My brain's on fire — 
My limbs scarce bear me onward, and my heart 
Irregularly leaps as hard as if 
'Twould burst its bonds. Let me but be revenged ! 
No matter then what dunghill is my grave. 
Totters out, and is seen to pass the window, followed 
cautiously by Todkill. 

The scene closes. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 241 



SCENE THIRD. 

An apartment in master Rolfe^s house in London 
Maud enters shewing in Hunt and Smith, 

Maud. 
So please you wait, I'll seek my mistress, sirs. 

\Exit Maud.'] 

Hunt to Smith. 
Poor fading flower, each day more near her end, 
Each day more fit for heaven ! Maud enters. 

Maud. 

My lady's here. 
Exit Maud, and enter Pocahontas. 

Pocahontas. 
My aged friend and monitor! 

Hunt. 

How fares 
My gentle lady ? 

21 



242 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Pocahontas. 



E'en more feeble still 



Than yesterday. 



Hunt. 
And yet you look not so. 

Pocahontas. 
So says my husband, and delusive hope 
Still cherishes. 

Hunt, 
Thy dear friend Smith now waits 
To greet thee. Look. Svfiith advances. 

Smith. 

Well met, dear lady ! 
She looks at him in silence^ then turns from him and 

hides her face. What ! 

Does my presence grieve thee ? 

Pocahontas recovering herself. 
Gives him her hand. No ; I joy 

To see thee, but a host of mem'ries speak 
Of home, and father, in thy well-known voice. 
'Tis o'er. — My husband will rejoice to see — 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 243 

Smith. 

We left 

Each other, lady, not an hour since. 
He tells me that to-morrow you return. 
You like not Britain then ? 

Pocahontas, 

Not like it! Yes! 
For beautiful is England ! with her groves, 
Her castles, palaces, and abbeys old ; 
Like fairy homes her vales and streams appear : 
Each landscape glows with history, and wears 
The sober perfectness of ripened age. 
No classic lore adorns my native land ; 
But rich redundant nature reigns alone. 
Great rivers, giant lakes, in silence sleep, 
And rushing torrents by their solemn voice 
Call man to praise his Maker. Insects steal 
The summer lightning there, and tiny birds 
Bring rainbow beauty from the Spirit land. 
There autumn forests on their leaves reflect 
The gorgeous colours of the setting sun. 
Whose throne, scarce vacant, night usurps, nor waits 



244 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Strange twilight's mournful smile : my father's grave 
Will be ere long 'mid those familiar haunts. 
It is my home ! It is my native land ! 
Enter Todkill hastily ^ not seeing Pocahontas. 

Todkill, 

Oh Captain! Such dreadful news! Master Rolfe 
has just been arrested in the street yonder ! 

I saw a crowd, and asked what was the matter ; 
the constables told me they'd an order from the 
Secretary of State to take him prisoner to the Tower 
on a charge of treason. 

Pocahontas. 
The Tower! Treason? did my husband speak? 

Todkill, confused on seeing Pocahontas. 
No, madam — that is — he had no time — but he 
beckoned to me, and said one word — "Pocahon- 
tas," and threw this to me. Takes out the chain 
given by Pocahontas to Rolfe. I made no answ^er 
for I could'nt speak ; but I looked, as much as to 
say — « I understand ;" and then the dust flew in 
my eyes, I suppose, for I could'nt see any more. 
Gives her the chain. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO, 245 

I Smith. 

Arrested! On what grounds ? 

Todklll. 
Conspiracy with Sir Walter Raleigh to establish 
an independent kingdom in Virginia. That was 
all I could learn amidst the confusion. 

Pocahontas, gazing on the chain. 
This chain he's worn 
Since first I gave it him. It calls me now 
To save him. Counsel me, what first to do. 
{Placing the chain around her neck, and pressing it 
to her lips.) 

Smith. 
Goj seek the king, while I trace out the source 
Whence flows this accusation, or they soon 
May plot thy peril too. 

Pocahontas. 
Mine ! 
With sudden thought. Ah ! My child ! 

21* 



246 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

To Doctor Hunt, 
Good friend, to thee I give my boy. Depart 
For my sake to Sir Lewis Stukely ; he 
Loves well my husband, and will guard my child. 
At court he's high in favour. Wilt thou go ? 

Hunt. 
I will, dear lady, and will send to thee 
News of his safety. 

Pocahontas. 
Thanks. — ^Wilt thou, good friend, 

To TodMll 
Bid Alice deck him for his journey ! Go! 

Todkill goes off. 
I dare not clasp him to my heart once more ; 
'Twould shake my purpose ; for I feel, I know 
I never shall behold my boy again ! 
My blessed child ! My only one ! 

Hunt. 

Yet hope ! 
The clouds will break — the sun will shine again. 
For Providence is with thee. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 247 

Pocahontas. 

Best of friends ! 
Bear to my boy my blessing and farewell. 
Now go ! Exit Hunt. Todldll returns. 

'Tis done ! 

Smith. 

Rebecca ! sure thy frame 
Will ill support this trial. 

Pocahontas. 

Heav'n implants 
In wom&n strength for all her duties. Now 
The mother's task is o'er ; the wife alone 
Remains. I go to seek the king. Again 
At Gravesend I will see thee — or in prison. 

Exit Pocahontas. 

Todkill advancing to meet Smith, 
I tell you, Captain, I see through the whole : Anas 
Todkill is no fool, I promise you. I traced Volday 
to the palace, which is, you know, hard by my 
house. Volday spoke to a lacquey who spurned 
him — then he offered money, and the man listened. 



248 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

I saw Volday give the coin and the letter. I saw 
the lacquey present the letter to a nobleman who 
was dismounting from his horse. He read the paper 
— muttered — " It is as I suspected," and beckoned 
to one of the king's messengers who was standing 
near. They went into the palace together. I dared 
not approach any nearer. But in a few minutes, out 
came the messenger and several constables. As 
luck would have it neighbour Newton passed me, 
and I bade him follow Volday, while I ran hither 
to warn Master Rolfe ; when as I came, I found the 
constables here before. Who would believe so 
much mischief could be done into a quarter of an 
hour. 

Smith. 

To Volday lead me first, and on my way 

I'll take two trusty friends in company 

As witnesses. How shall we thank thy zeal ? 

Todkill. 
Don't name it. It pleases me more to serve 
master Rolfe, than if the king and the whole court 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 249 

had sat down to supper in the best room of the 
Arquebus. 

Smith. 
I do believe it worthy friend. Lead on. 

[Exeunt Smith and TodkilL] 



SCENE FOURTH. 

Gardens of the Palace at Whitehall. 
Enter Charles and Anne in conversation, 

Charles. 
Madam, I doubt these cruel whispers 'gainst 
The friends of Raleigh will involve them all 
In his approaching ruin. 

Anne. 

Much I fear 
'Tis true. 



250 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Charles. 
Oh ! could my influence protect 
The innocent, I'd use it freely. 

Enter Page. Well ? 

Page. 
May it please your royal highness, Lady Rolfe 
Most earnestly entreats an audience. 

Charles, surprised. 

What! 

Lady Rebecca ! Go conduct her here. 

[Exit Page.] 

Anne. 
It is the first sad pleader in the cause 
Of which thou spok'st but now, my son. But see, 
The mourner comes. 

Page shows in Pocahontas. 

Pocahontas. 
Most gracious, gentle queen ! 
And you, kind prince, oh, grant a wife's sad prayer. 
Your royal father will not hear my suit. 
To you I come for mercy. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 251 

Charles. 

Lady speak ! 
But calm your grief. What would you ask ? 

Pocahontas, 

My life! 
For in my husband's life is mine involved. 
Oh ! deign to sue unto the king for him. 
His safety — nay, his life's unjustly perilled, 
For he hath done no wrong. 

Charles. 

Be of good cheer; 
Although thy husband is arrested, yet 
Tis on suspicion only. 

Pocahontas, 

A strong foe ! 
'Tis like that reptile of our wilds, whose sting 
Is fatal, — and whose rattle shrill, the knell 
Of him who hears. But 'tis more merciless ; 
Suspicion gives no warning ere it stings. 

Anne advancing to her. 
Hope for the best, dear lady. 



252 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Pocahontas. 

Hope alone 
Cannot obtain the boon I seek. Oh then, 
Kind lady, hearken to my prayer ! Mercy, 
The brightest gem in royal crowns, will gild 
Thy brow with greater lustre than the hues 
Of loveliness and splendour. Plead for me. 

Anne. 
My husband's will I scarcely hope to change. 
Yet his displeasure would I risk for thee. 
I'll seek him ; but I dare not promise aught. 
My heart's best wish, dear stranger, goes with thee 

Unto my husband's throne. 

Exit Anne. 

Charles. 

Rebecca, yet 
Droop not. A trial will exonerate 
Thy husband. 

Pocahontas. 

Not if Raleigh be condemned. 
Sweet prince ! since death hath claimed thy brother 
dear. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 253 

Thou wilt be king. Then think. (For who can read 
The future !) Clouds may dim thy reign, and woes 
Arise, such as crowned heads but rarely know\ 
Should troubles swarm, and death close up thy path, 
The thought that thou hast e'er the wretched soothed, 
Redressed a wrong, protected virtue — cheered, 
Sustained the weak, will more avail thee then 
Than all the thousands who thy crowning hail 
With—" Long live Charles the First !" 

Charles, 

Cease, lady, cease ! 
Thy words prophetic seem and touch my soul. 
Should w^oes like these assail my dying hour, 
Thy pleading voice will echo in my ear. 
And bid my conscience answer the appeal. 
Farewell. Thou hast my royal word. I'll seek 
The king. If just entreaty can avail. 
Enforced with strongest arguments of truth,' 
And each appeal that filial love can make. 
Thy husband shall be free Thou faintest! 

Pocahontas. 
He supporis her. Yes! — 

The joy — the hope — my grateful heart o'ercharged 

2-2 



2o-4 THE FOREST PP.IXCESS ; 

A wife, a mother, and a stranger'' s thanks 
Call blessings on thy head ! 

Charles. 

Let me lead thee 
First to thy friends — then seek my father. Come, 

Look cheerily ! This way We'll save him yet. 

Leads her out. 



SCEXE LAST. 

Master Rolfe'^s house at Gravesend. The hack of 
the stage is nearly all occupied by a large casement^ 
vjhich being opened^ discovers a view of the banks 
of the Thames at Gravesend^ with the George lying 
at anchor. Sunset. 

JVear thewindoiva large antique chair with cushions. 
Enter Todkill. 

Todkill. 
I begin to find out ^YhaL a clever fellow I am : 
Opportunity is every thing. I took the captain 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 255 

and his friends to that villain's den, and then came 
down here to meet Captain Smith on his return. 
Odso ! I should like to thrash Void ay myself. 

Enter Mice. 

Jllice. 
Ah, Master Anas ! 

Todkill. 
What, Mistress Alice, is that you ? 

Alice, 
What were you thinking of when I came in, 
clenching your fists, and looking so valiant ? 

Todkill. 
Valiant ! I believe I am valiant, Mistress Todkill 
that is to be. 

Alice. 
How came you here on such a busy day ? Who 
will take care of the <« Arquebus ?" 

I 

^ Todkill^ pompously. 

The " Arquebus" must take care of itself. I have 



256 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

had important business. I've been rescuing the 
innocent, and exposing the guilty. 

Alice. 
You ! mercy on the man ! 

Todkill. 
At least I've helped to do it, which is the same 
thing. 

Alice. 
What do you mean ? 

Todkill. 
I've been assisting Captain Smith to save Master 
Rolfe. 

Alice. 
I rejoice to hear it. No man is better able to 
serve a friend than Captain Smith. Such a brave — 

Todkill. 
Brave! truly he is. Why years ago he was 
chosen out of a whole army to fight the Turkish 
champion. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 257 

Alice. 
Was he indeed ? 

Todkill. 
Yes. Master Rolfe told me. The captain not 
only fought one but three; and killed them all! and 
ever since, he carries their heads on his shield. I've 
seen them. 

Alice, 
Shuddering. Oh ! how dreadful ! 

Todldll. 
FooHsh woman ! not the heathen Saracens them- 
selves. Don't you understand ! the heads are his 
arms, and he'll hand them down to posterity. He 
is a brave man, and so is Master Rolfe, and so 
am I ! 

Alice. 
What, Master Anas! you, brave? 

Todkill. 
Yes, you should have seen me in America. 
Nobody would believe how valiant I was there, 

among the wolves, and the bears, and the panthers. 

22* 



258 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Alice, 
Heaven's mercy ! And had you the courage to 
fight those terrible creatures ! 

Todkill 
Courage ! Why, Alice, I couldn't tell you how 
many I killed. 

Alice. 
What dangers there are abroad! 

Todkill. 
And at home too, of another sort. Look at this 
villany toward Master Rolfe. Alice, have they been 
here to search ? 

Alice. 
Yes— and ^placed huge seals on all the doors and 
presses. They ransacked every drawer and paper 
they could find, and cross-questioned me — 

Todkill. 
Indeed ? It's well I was not here. 

Alice. 
Then they went away muttering that their search 
had been unsatisfactory — 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 259 

TodkilL 
To them, which means very satisfactory to us. 
They found nothing. Has Lady Rebecca returned 
from the palace yet ? 

Alice. 
Noj not yet, poor lady. I know not what I shall 
do when she is gone. 

Todkill, pompously. 
You will then be Mistress Todkill, hostess of the 
<* Arquebus," and will have enough to do in looking 
after the guests, and attending to your husband. 

Alice, Looking of. 
Hush ! here comes my lady. 

TodMXl. 
Then I'll go down to the river's bank, and wait 
for news from London. 

Alice. 
Bless thee, thou hast a kind heart, Anas. 

Todkill. 
To be sure I have : that's why I'm going away 



260 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

now. I've no consolation to offer the poor lady, 
and I'll not stay to stare at a sorrow I can't relieve. 
Good bye Alice. 

Exit Todkill. 

Alice. 
She comes. Alas ! how slow she moves ! 
Sorrow has shattered her enfeebled frame. 
Runs to meet her. 
Pocahontas is led in hy Alice and Maud. 

Pocahontas, 
No news from Captain Smith ? 
Maud brings down the chair, into which they place her, 

Alice, 

No, madam, none. 

Pocahontas, 
Nor of my child .'' 

Alice. 
Not yet, 

Pocahontas. 

I gasp ! More air" 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 261 

Throw wide the casement ! Let me see the sun ; 
Maud throws open the window , while Alice adjusts the 

cushions and supports the head of Pocahontas. 
Its sinking beams will cheer my dying hour : 
And even now in splendour of noon-day 
It gilds my native land. Hark ! 'tis the tramp 
Of horses' feet. Run, girl, and see ! 

Exit Maud. My heart, 

Hold yet awhile. 

Maud re-enters with a letter. 
Now speak ! 

Maud. 

From Doctor Hunt. 
This letter, madam. Gives it. 

Pocahontas opening it eagerly and 
Attempting to read. Ah ! my sight is failing, — 
I cannot read it. Alice — Gives it to her 

and sinks back exhausted. 

Alice. Reads, 

<< Dear lady. 

Sir Lewis bids me say, no harm shall reach 
Thy boy, beneath his roof, where now we rest 
In safety." — 



262 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Pocahontas, having listened eagerly. 
Heav'n accept my thanks ! My son ! 

Thou'lt not forget thy mother's fond caress ! 

Father and brother, — are ye living yet ? 

There rides the ship that was to bear me home : 

My journey home will be more quickly made : 

I faint with weariness ! 

She relapses into a slumber, her attendants watching 
her. 

[In the performance of this drama, the stage thus 
illustrates the 

Vision of Pocahontas. 

A strain of invisible music is heard, and thin clouds 
obscure the view from the casement. The clouds 
gradually disperse and discover the open sea, across 
which the " George''^ is seen to sail. This view fades 
and gives place to the mouth of James River with 
its forest, its rude fort, and wigwams. On the 
bank stands Powhatan, awaiting his daughter'' s 
ariival in the ship which is seen approaching the 
shore. Clouds again obscure the scene, and through 
them a figure of Time passes, beckoning Peace who 
follows. The clouds partially disperse, and dis- 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 263 

close in the distance^ the form of Washington — the 
Genius of Columbia stands near him. Time 
hovers near, and Peace encircles with her arms the 
Lion and the Eagle. A mist then conceals the 
allegorical group, and again dispersing, discovers 
the view of Gravesend, at sunset, with the 
^^ George^'' at anchor, as it appeared previous to 
the vision. The music dies away. 
Pocahontas awakes suddenly, and exclaims — after 

gazing round her — No, 'tis no dream ! 
J3s if endowed with temporary strength she starts up 

clasping her hands in thankfulness. 
Souls of the prophet-fathers of my race, 
Light from the Land of Spirits have ye sent 
To paint the future on my mental sight. 
Like the Great River of far Western wilds, 
Improvement's course, unehhing, shall flow on. 
From that beloved soil where I drew breath 
Shall noble chiefs arise. But one o'er all, 
By heaven named to set a nation free, 
I hear the universal world declare. 
In shouts whose echo centuries prolong, 
<' The Father of his Country !" O'er the path 



264 THE FOREST PRINCESS; 

Of Ages, I behold Time leading Peace. 

By ties of love and language bound, I see 

The Island-Mother and her Giant Child, 

Their arms extend across the narrowing seas, 

The grasp of lasting friendship to exchange ! 

As the prophetic enthusiasm dies away^ Pocahontas 

sinks exhausted in the arms of her wondering 

attendants. 

Smith enters hastily. 

Smith. 

Lady, hope on ! Led by an humble friend 
I sought the dying Switzer. By revenge 
And famine tortured, nature found relief 
In madness. Volday's ravings soon revealed 
His motives, and his slanders. Witnesses 
With me to royal Charles have borne the news, 
Which long ere this is laid before the king. 

Pocahontas falls on her knees. 
I stayed not to hear more, but hastened on 
To bring thee hope. 

The ivomen raise Pocahontas, and place her in the 
chair. 




OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 265 

Pocahontas, 
Oh ! take my fervent thanks ! 
The thanks of one whose name and race will die 
Together! 

Smith. 
No ! thy country's sons will task 
The sculptor's and the limner's art to pay 
Hereafter homage to thy memory. 
In Britain too, whole ages hence, the tale 
Of Pocahontas' noble life and death 
Will love and admiration claim from all. 
Thy name will live for ever ! 

Pocahontas, who has exhibited all the restlessness of 
approaching dissolution, now exclaims, 

Listen! Hark! 
A murmur heard without, 

Alice. 
A murmur in the hall and rapid steps. 

Rolfe, speaks without. 
Where is she ? speak ? 

23 



266 THE FOREST PRINCESS J 

Pocahontas, starting up and totienng forward. 
It is my husband's voice ! 

Rolfe rushes in exclaiming, 
My wife ! Pocahontas foils in his arms. 

Pocahontas. 
He's safe ! He's here ! 

Rolfe. 

Dearest! see, 
Restored to thee ! Look up I 

Smith. 

Acquitted ? Free ? 

Rolfe. 
My innocence confirmed. Prince Charles himself 
Brought me my prompt acquittal from the king. 
But say, dearest, why sink you thus ? I'm safe. 
Pocahontas raises her head and gazes at him. 
Great Heaven ! how changed thou art ! 

Pocahontas. 

Our child will be 
Thy stay in after years. My husband ! I — 
Must leave thee. 



OR, TWO CENTURIES AGO. 267 

Rolfe. 
Say not so ! my wife ! my love ! 

Pocahontas. . 
I warned thee of this parting months ago. 
Our peaceful lives rob death of half its sting. 
Extends her hand which Smith presses reverentially 
to his lips. She then flings her arms around Rolfe, 
exclaiming. 
Bless thee ! Sinking hack in the women^s arms, 

Rolfe, in anguish falling on his knees. 
Live, Pocahontas ! Live ! 

Pocahontas, with a faint smile of joy. 

That name ! 

My own ! the first by which thou knew'st me, love ! 

'Tis music to my soul. Her trembling hands vainly 
attempt to lift the little chain from her neck. Her 
women raise it for her, and Pocahontas with 
fading sight and uncertain action at length casts it 
round Rolfe' s neck. I lose thee now. 

My eyes behold Virginia's grassy turf— 



268 THE FOREST PRINCESS. 

I hear my father — Husband, fare thee well. 

We part — but we shall meet — above ! 

Her right hand, (which has been momentarily pointed 
upwards,) falls, and she dies in the arms of her 
women. Rolfe still remains upon his knee, clasp- 
ing her hand and gazing upon her in utter despair. 
Smith bends over him in silence. 



APPENDIX. 

The incidents of this play are historical in their most minute 
details : but the unities of the stage required the condensation of 
events into days instead of months, and rendered several ana- 
chronisms necessary ; the reader of history will at once perceive 
them. 

Page 166, line 6. — .Pocahontas vi^as the title ; Matoka, or 
Matoax, the name. The Indians kept the latter a secret, lest 
the vv^hites should avail themselves of it to practise sorcery upon 
the forest princess. 

Page 180, line 16. — These are the words recorded as having 
been uttered by Smith on that occasion. 

Page 214, line 9. — Pearls were found in great profusion in 
North Carolina and Virginia, and were an important article of 
barter. 

Page 213, last line. — Powhatan's refusal to kneel is minutely 
dwelt upon by the historian ; but as no motive is assigned, I have 
given that which seemed most probable. 

Page 240, line 18. — ^Volday's fate is summed up in history 
in these words : " he perished miserably." 

Page 257, line 6. — The coat of arms of " Captain Smith" 
was confirmed by Garter King at Arms in London : three Turks' 
heads, on a shield. 

23* 



270 APPENDIX. 

Page 264,_line 5. — The belief in prophetic inspiration at the 
hour of death, was, and is, general among the American red men ; 
and although Pocahontas died a Christian, the new faith could 
not fail to be tinged by the hues of early association. The 
embodiment of her prophetic vision, by allegorical scenes and 
figures, was a necessity consequent upon the acting of the drama. 

All the names in the play, without exception, are historical. 
The speeches of Pocahontas, page 197, and of Powhatan/page 217, 
marked as quotations, are recorded specimens of Indian eloquence, 
and only paraphrased by me. 



The correct pronunciation of Fowhatan by the Indians them- 
selves, lays the emphasis on the last syllable. 



«| 



THE HEART? OE THE SOUL? 

A SERIES OF TALES. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Eeader, gentle and courteous reader, — have you ever travelled 
from Pittsburg to Philadelphia, by the canal route, passing over, 
beside, and through the Alleghany mountains 1 If you have, 
you knovy the delight of such a journey. If you have not, make 
it your first pleasure-trip ; for if, in these days of utilitarian inno- 
vation, it remains as it was some years ago, you will find it is an 
excursion unsurpassed in picturesque beauty. The travelling 
too, is, or was, delightful, — the boats, models of cleanliness, — the 
fare and style of the table excellent, — all combining to prove that 
the proprietors might justifiably add "Fulfilment," to their 
official announcement of " Good Intent." With books and 
needlework, (provided you are not like too many of us in this 
working-day world, running a race with time,) you will find the 
hours pass rapidly, when you are wearied with long gazing ; and 
firequent variety is offered by the ascent and descent of the locks, 
the bustle ever attendant upon the firequent cry of " Bridge," and 
all the other little incidents which on such occasions seem so 
great. Then the sociability ! None but the incurably sulky or 
stupid can resist the influence of the place, and sit silent and 
alone, and of them you say, " So much the better." If you have 
youth and health on your side, the cramped, out of the way 
accommodations for bed and toilet, are particularly amusing in the 



274 INTRODUCTION. 

contrast they afford to your accustomed home. The manage- 
ment too, (is it not ingenious ?) whereby the odd little beds are 
packed away daily like magic, — with their coverings ticketed so 
as to be awarded to the "rightful owner," — does it not suggest, 
the comparing of yourself to a cup and saucer, which are care- 
fully laid by upon a shelf at night, and taken down again in the 
morning 1 

Had you ever travelled on this route, you would have sympa- 
thized with the exclamations of dehght which broke unconsciously 
from the hps of Anna Clayton, as she stood one bright morning, 
gazing on the fair prospect before her. She turned round and 
called to her companions, — ^her cousin Emma Willis, and their 
mutual friends, Alice Hargrave and Jane Miller. Age and youth 
generally seek their kind, and the elder members of the party 
tacitly combined in their morning and evening consultations, 
while the four young ladies, whose names have just been chroni- 
cled, likewise formed an intimate little society. Anna was a 
bright, merry, beautiful girl, scarcely seventeen, taking her first 
excursion from home, in company with the parents whom she 
loved ; to her might be truthfully applied the words of our own 
poet: 

" The world is bright before thee. 

Its summer flowers are thine. 

Its bright blue sky is o'er thee. 

Thy bosom, pleasure's shrine." 

Emma was a few months older, amiable and intelligent, with 
poetry and sentiment enough to make her agreeable, but not 
sufficient to render her ridiculous. 

Jane had just entered the bright season of womanhood, and 



INTRODUCTION. 275 

with the conscious dignity of one and twenty, and the sedateness 
of a promised bride, tamed the exuberance of her younger com- 
panions. 

Alice was the oldest of the party. Graceful and elegant in 
form, placid, thoughtful, and benign in feature, she possessed a 
remarkably energetic and intellectual character, which had been 
refined and perfected by education. If the first bloom and round- 
ness of youth had too early left her cheek at this her sixth and 
twentieth summer, the expression of lofty thought and pure reso" 
lution which supplied its place, was more fascinating than the 
brighter faces of her companions, as it spoke of a mind and heart 
disciplined by care, purified by trials. 

These girls would sit, clustered together — one reading aloud, 
while the others sewed — their joint labours repeatedly interrupted 
by frequent comments upon the beauty of the scenery, or the 
merits of the volume. Sometimes the elder of the party would 
disturb them most agreeably by informing them that the next two 
locks were only about two miles apart, and that the obliging cap- 
tain would allow them a brisk walk on shore. In a moment, 
shawls and bonnets were adjusted, and before the boat had risen 
half-way to the summit of the lock, these merry girls and their 
friends would be gaily walking along the banks, turning back to 
fling an inoffensive jest at their idle companions lefl in the boat. 
Exhilarated by the pure air, glowing with exercise, they would 
rejoin their fiiends at the " next lock,'' and expatiate upon the 
charms of their ramble and of the scenes around them. 

" I have travelled much," said Alice one day, " but I recollect 
no lovelier view than this in any part of our country. Look at 
those high mountains, their summits crowned with snow, their 



276 INTRODUCTION. 

rugged sides mantled with forests, and at their base a carpet of 
soft verdure and flowers. And, whenever we leave the artificial 
canal, how gracefully does the boat wind among the meanderings 
of these mountain streams, the Juniata, the Alleghany, and Kis- 
kiminitis." 

" Such scenery as this would make any one a poet," cried Anna. 

" No," replied AUce ; " the poet's inspiration must be within. 
In circumstances most adverse, in scenes most uncongenial, have 
many of the finest poems been written. If the genius really exist, 
the sight of what is lovely in nature acts like the collision of flint 
with steel, and strikes out the fire from its native bed, — but that 
bed is the poet's soul." 

" Why are you so silent, Emma 1" said Anna. 

" I am thinking of the tale Alice has just been reading. I am 
so glad it ended happily." 

" So am I !" cried Anna. « I do not like heart-rending 
catastrophes : I love what is called poetic justice." 

" And I," rejoined Jane, " cannot describe the delight, (as 
Burke defines the word,) which a pathetic conclusion aflbrds me." 

" What diversity of opinion !" cried Anna, laughing. " And 
you, Alice, what do you say 1 Which do you side with 1" 

" With all," answered Alice. 

" How can that be "?" the three girls eagerly exclaimed. 

" For mere gratification, the state of the reader's mind decides 
the point. And for morals too, it is beneficial that in fiction the 
good should sometimes be happy ; otherwise the picture of life 
would be too discouraging. Yet as a general rule — But stay, I 
will give you a high authority for my opinion," said Alice, taking 



INTRODUCTION. 277 

up a book which her uncle had cast upon the sofa, and reading 
therefrom the following passage: 

" To reward virtue with temporal prosperity is not the recom- 
pense which Providence has deemed worthy of suffering merit, 
and it is a dangerous and fatal doctrine to teach young persons, 
the common readers of romance, that rectitude of conduct and of 
principle are either naturally allied with, or adequately rewarded 
by, the gratification of our passions or the attainment of our 
wishes."* 

" How admirably expressed !" said Jane. " When I write a 
romance," she added laughing, « I will take that sentence as my 
motto." 

" Then I hope," cried Anna, " that you will not exclude love 
from your moral story, or I will not read it, I promise you." 

" Nor," continued Emma, "make your lovers so terribly pru- 
dent and reasonable that you feel assured they can never move 
except with mathematical precision : if you do, / will not read it." 

" Nor," remarked Alice, playfully, " must your heroine achieye 
perfection through the force of mental resolutioii only, unaided 
by religion, or I shall consider its moral purpose incomplete." 

" A thought has struck me," cried Anna, leaping from her 
chair, and clapping her hands in girlish glee. "My Aunt 
Bladgely has invited us all, you know, to spend next June at her 
lovely country house. Before we meet there, let us all write a 
story, based upon the excellent quotation Alice read to us, and 
the learned discussion which has followed it," she added demurely ; 
" and then read them, aloud, at my Aunt's to one another," 

* Walter Scott. 

24 



278 INTRODUCTION. 

" Delightful ! agreed !" cried Emma and Jane, while Alice 
smiled assent. 

"How dignified our literary party will be!" cried Emma. 
What a valuable collection of tales ! what shall we call them 1 
Love Stories 1" 

" Oh no !" said Anna. " All people who pride themselves 
upon being very sensible, will curl up their noses at the very 
name." 

" Well then," exclaimed Alice, " as they are to illustrate the 
struggles of Love subdued by Religion, what do you think of 
The Heart? ox The Soul T 

The three younger maidens smiled and iterated their eager 
assent : the playful compact was ratified. 

********* 

The month of June had arrived, and the happy party had been 
once more united at Mrs. Bladgely's delightful residence on the 
banks of the Hudson. Before retiring to rest one evening, Anna 
reminded them of their compact, and suggested that it should be 
fulfilled before the addition of many visitors should render privacy 
unattainable by the " literary club." The next morning was 
accordingly appointed, and when it came, the merry party sallied 
forth to a shady nook some distance fi:om the house, where the 
green sward and the trunks of old forest-trees afforded a natural 
couch, and the waving foliage spread a pleasant canopy. The 
bright sun peeped in through the branches, and smiled upon faces 
as fair as he had ever beamed upon ; while the hum of insects, 
and the chirping of the birds, seemed modulated as an accom- 
paniment to those sweet murmuring voices that one after the 



I 



INTRODUCTION. 



279 



other rose on the air, perusing their harmless fictions. By com- 
mon consent, Anna was to commence the lecture ; and the saucy- 
girl gravely unfolded her manuscript, and took from her reticule 
her grandmother's spectacles, which she adjusted with a mock 
seriousness that called forth a hearty laugh. 

" Do not laugh, young ladies," she exclaimed. " I am going 
to read a very serious story, all about an old maid, as I intend to 
be one myself. You may laugh, Alice — Mrs. Harvey, I mean ; 
but I am in earnest. And now young ladies, I claim your re- 
spectful attention." So saying, Anna commenced her story : 



The MAiBEisr Auxt. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 
A TALE OF TEXAS. 

CHAPTER I. 

She breathed more sweetness than the east, 

While every sentence was divine ; 
Her smiles could calm each jarring breast ; 

Her soul was a celestial mine 
"V^Tiere all the precious veins of virtue lay, — 
Too vast a treasure to be lodged in clay. 

ALLAIf EaMSAT. 

To Captai:s Ruspout, U. S. Ship U^fiox. 

Rusportville, March 16th, 1834. 

The design you have persevered in, my dear 
brother, of sending Gertrude to a boarding-school 
so far distant, though a plan frequently adopted by 
us, is by no means a judicious one. It is natural to 

conclude that where her home has been for eight 

24* 



283 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

years, she would form attachments stronger than 
mere instinctive regard towards her own family whom 
she has so little known. Never having seen even 
her father but three times since her absence, it would 
not be extraordinary if to those of her own blood 
she were a comparative stranger. Besides, her 
instructors may have been common-place, though 
well-meaning persons, and their knowledge of the 
character of a scholar is necessarily superficial — the 
moral culture they impart, unavoidably limited. 
Their very position precludes that " perfect love 
which casteth out fear" — their many occupations 
prevent constant care for one individual. At an age 
when imagination is strong and judgment crude, the 
pupils can hold unreserved and unrestrained intimacy 
with their fellows only ; and the puerile romance, 
or premature worldliness, or selfish cunning, or 
unhealthy sentimentality of one, too frequently has 
its influence upon many who are not shielded by 
the armour of liome counsels and instruction. I do 
not blame you for a moment, my dear James, but 
as an only and lonely sister, older than yourself, you 
have always sought my candid opinion. Educated 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 283 

near me,— who would, God knows, have been a 
mother to her,— her principles, her mind, would 
have been equally adorned and cultivated, although, 
I acknowledge, some few fashionable accomplish- 
ments might have been wanting. However these 
are only my individual sentiments drawn from obser- 
vation. There are bright exceptions to this, as to 
every other general rule, and I hope and indeed 
believe our sweet girl is one of them. She has 
returned, as pure in heart and lovely in form as her 
dear mother was at eighteen. I shall give no account 
of her proficiency, that you may be the more 
delighted when you see her. I earnestly hope your 
adopted son may be worthy of such a treasure. If 
it pleases the Almighty to spare you many years, 
which I devoutly trust He may, you have a life of 
happiness in prospect in the society of such a darling 
girl. The letters 1 have received from her bespeak 
a gentle and amiable character, and if she is not 
frightened, by anticipation, at that terrible bug-bear, 
an old maid^ I doubt not she will love me so that 
I may in some degree replace the mother she has 
lost. This letter will greet you on your arrival at 



284 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

Norfolk, whither I trust you will soon return safe, 
and we shall eagerly look for you and Lieutenant 
Stansbury in a month at furthest. There is a gentle- 
manly, intelligent young man residing here just now 
named Greville Drayton. He is about two and twenty. 
I think you would be much pleased with him were 
you to meet. He is an old acquaintance of Ger- 
trude's who knew him at our friends the Williams' 
of Albany, where she spent her summer vacations. 
Gertrude sends best love and affectionate regards, 
with many kisses to her dear father. But when I 
asked what I should say to the Lieutenant, she 
answered — "Make my respects to him, if you 
please. Aunt." Oh, the dignity of eighteen ! We 
are going to Raleigh to our friends, the Leslies, in a 
fortnight ; you can meet us there as it is on your way 
home, and we will return to Rusportville together. 
I long to show you the improvements I have made. 
Gertrude is sure you will like them. That we may 
all be soon united in health and happiness, is the 
constant prayer, my dear James, of 

Your affectionate Sister, 

Agatha Rusport. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 285 

To Miss CAHotijfE Williams, 

Nut Grove Academy, NewYork. 

Rusportville, March 24th, 1834. 

At last my dearest -Caroline, I reply to your letter, 
but I have been in such a continued whirl of excite- 
ment with every thing new around me, that I am 
scarcely able to write. I am as yet but half recon- 
ciled to the parting with our kind friends at Nut 
Grove. How happy we have been together for. so 
many years, and now perhaps I may never see them 
again ; from you at least I may often hear, and you 
would scarcely believe me w^re I to tell you of the 
deUght your letters afford me. Independent of my 
unchanging affection for you^ my associations and 
attachments are of course chiefly at Nut Grove. 
The friends I have met here are however exceedingly 
kind to me, more especially my aunt, whom you 
know^ I have dreaded to return to, as I expected to 
find her so cross and prudish. But I have been 
agreeably surprised ; she is not at all like an old 
maid, only that she is very particular. A thread 
upon the carpet makes her uneasy till it is removed ! 
But she is very sweet tempered and cheerful, in no 



286 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

way vain or austere. She is handsome for her years. 
She dresses elegantly, her whole appearance com- 
ports with her age, and is therefore dignified and 
admirable. Her manners are lady-like and affable 
in the extreme, she must be much over fifty, for she 
is older than my dear father; she must have been a 
charming woman. Is it not a pity she is an old 
maid .'*- 

My father will soon join us, for the papers an- 
nounce the arrival of the Union in Norfolk Harbour. 
But my joy at seeing him, will be marred by Lieu- 
tenant Stansbury's accompanying him as usual. Mr. 
Stansbury was my early playmate, and I liked him 
very well then. But unfortunately my dear father 
has determined that I shall marry him. It has been 
the favourite hope of both, (my aunt tells me,) since 
my childhood. I am in a painful dilemma ; for in- 
dulgent as my father is, I know, from what I have 
seen in the short visits he paid me at Nut Grove, he 
will not endure contradiction when determined. I 
dread opposing him, and yet I must do so or be 
miserable. Feel for me, my dearest Caroline ; the 
assurance of your sympathy \\411 be an alleviation 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 287 

to my distress. Let me soon hear from you, my 
sweet friend. 

Ever affectionately Yours, 

Gertrude. 

P. S. I had almost forgotten to tell you that 
Greville Drayton arrived here nearly as soon as I 
did, and has shewn my aunt and myself every atten- 
tion. Indeed we see him every day. He is*going 
to Raleigh next week when we do. He begged to 
be remembered to your family. He is now in the 
house, having just sent up his card and such lovely 
flowers ! I must therefore close my letter at once, 
for if I leave it unfinished till I come upstairs again, 
I shall lose the post, as Mr. Drayton generally spends 
the whole evening here. Adieu. 



288 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



CHAPTER 11. 

There are precipices at every rood on the highway of human 

life, over which our best intentions fall and dash themselves to 

pieces. 

• James. 

We make a ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, 

And sleep ourselves at the foot. 

L. E. LAifDoif. 

It was a fine evening late in April. The air, laden 
with the breath of the wild honey-suckles that bor- 
dered the road for miles, perfumed with its sweet 
odours the drawling-room of a charming residence 
at the extremity of Raleigh — one of the loveliest 
spots in the Carolinas. The windows were open, 
and two young persons stole forth from the merry 
group within, and stepped upon the piazza. Greville 
Drayton — (for it was he,) drew his companion Ger- 
trude's arm within his own, and led her towards a 
cluster of trees that shadowed one wing of the 
building. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 289 

««Here dearest Gertrude," said he, ^^we shall be 
unheard by even your watchful aunt. Within two 
days your father will return, and with him my rival. 
I know your gentle, yielding nature will not main- 
tain opposition to a father's commands, — will not 
dare to brave a father's anger. Wretched indeed 
will be my future fate when I see you the wife of 
another : and can you, dearest, after the sweet con- 
fession you have so lately made — can you look for- 
ward calmly to such a prospect ? You cannot — the 
timid pressure of that dear hand is a sufficient reply. 
Your father cannot object to my family or fortune, 
and when he finds his early project foiled, he will 
not long cherish indignation for what is irrevocable. 
As your suitor I maybe forbidden the house — I have 
no power to interpose. As your husband, I should 
be ever near you, with the right to shield you from 
every harshness — to sustain you in every trial. I 
w^ould not for the world propose a step so startling 
to your sensitive mind, but circumstances allow no 
alternative. Consent then, my own Gertrude, to 
fly with me." — None but a lover could have heard 

the fiiintly articulated assent, but it was enough for 
25 



290 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

Greville. A delicate forbearance, arising from the 
peculiar circumstances of their relative situations, 
checked the ardour of his thanks : and only pressing 
his lips rapturously to her hand, he was about to 
detail his plans, when two or three guests issued 
from the drawing room, calling playfully for Ger- 
trude. " We are again interrupted," — he exclaimed 
— "but I will write. Adieu for a moment, dear girl." 
And he darted through the trees and was out of 
sight before the intruders approached. 

"My dear Gertrude," cried JuUa Leslie, "where 
have you hid yourself? my chattering, I suppose, 
drove you away. But you must return now, for 
we have all decided upon a dance as the evening is 
so cool — and we cannot spare you. A ball extempore 
is what I love beyond all things : Miss Agatha looks 
as though she would add ' except the sound of your 
own voice.' " 

"No, indeed," replied Agatha smiling, "no 
such sly satire was in my thoughts. Gertrude, my 
child, your face is flushed, and how your hand 
trembles! — you have stayed out too long." They 
returned to the house ; and the next two hours 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 291 

passed merrily enough with many. But Agatha 
could not account for her niece's agitation, except 
by a suspicion of the truth, which had crossed her 
mind more than once during the past week. The 
company were resting after their fatigue, when Miss 
Leslie perceived Gr-eville who had returned at the 
close of the dancing, and with playful curiosity 
inquired the cause of his absence. He replied in 
the same gay tone, and made his way towards the 
piano, round which many were assembled listening 
to some sweet melodies from others of the party. The 
strain ceased, and Gertrude in her turn was re- 
quested to sing. Miss Leslie approaching cried, 
<< Do sing one of your plaintive airs, Gertrude dear. 
Now here is one every body will like — Bayly's — of 
course. His ballads are in every family circle, an 
unequivocal test of their natural pathos." 

"And what song is this?" asked another; Ger- 
trude replied ; "It is his last. It had just arrived 
from England, when I left New York." (The 
Ballad was, "We met:" and though its reign of 
popularity has been succeeded by newer strains, all 



292 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

can recollect the enthusiastic admiration its first 
appearance created.) In the bustle caused by. 
searching for the music, Greville, unseen by all 
except Agatha, slipped into Gertrude's hand a note 
which she hastily concealed. 

" The beauty of that song," said Greville, 
speaking quickly, so that Gertrude's momentary 
confusion, might pass unobserved, « arises as much 
from what it implies as from what it relates. I 
conveys a whole history of mutual love, of broken 
faith, parental tyranny, weak obedience, and una- 
vailing remorse." 

"I am always melancholy," said Julia Leslie, 
<'(■ for at least Jive minutes after I have heard that 
song — an extraordinary effect upon me by the by. 
Its tone of reproach is natural, but painful. I wdsh 
there was a third verse to complete the history, with 
less bitterness of feeling." 

" Somebody," remarked Gertrude, glancing 
archly but timidly, at her aunt, " has pencilled a 
few lines, (anticipating your wish, Julia,) on the 
cover of the Ballad." 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 293 

"Indeed !" cried Julia : <' then pray sing it !" 
" Do let us hear it !" broke from many voices at 
once. 

" Willingly ; if the letters are not quite effaced." 
So saying, with pathos and expression, Gertrude 
sang the ballad now so familiar to every ear, sub- 
joining the following lines as a third verse : 

But now — I am a wife — useless grief I must banish — 
My life, with love and hope, like a dream soon will vanish. 
My lot on earth is cast, no regret can avail me — 
But sad as is my fate, reproach ne'er shall assail me. 
When death prepares repose for the heart that is broken, 
These words to one afar, without shame may be spoken : 
" I loved but thee alone, though I wedded another 1 
Farewell, and when I'm dead, thou wilt pardon my mother 1'^ 

Throughout the progress of the song, Agatha had 
observed Gertrude as well as Greville ; and the 
character of their feelings, which gave an uncon- 
scious intensity to her tones, and an additional ex- 
pression to the features of both, became evident to 
her scrutinizing eye. 

The party dispersed, Agatha and Gertrude w^nt 
up stairs together, and as the latter gave her accus- 
tomed kiss, Agatha said: "Gertrude, my child, 
25* 



294 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

you are still feverish. Is there nothing I can do for 
you ?" 

«« Nothing, dear Aunt. Good night." 
Agatha sighed and entered her o^Yn room, leaving 
the door awhile ajar, hoping for a summons from 
Gertrude, but none came. She closed her door, 
and retired to bed — but not to rest. Her heart 
yearned towards Gertrude with a mother's yearning 
for her affection. She dreaded the jeopardy in 
w^hich her niece's happiness seemed to stand, and 
the night was passed in vain wishes for a confidence 
she felt was withheld. 

Quickly did Gertrude dismiss her maid, fasten 
her door, and draw forth Greville's note. Blushing 
at her own eagerness, she sat down, and tremblingly 
perused it. «' In haste dearest Gertrude," it began, 
" I write those details I have been prevented from 
telling you. If you will, my own love, be true to 
the promise which was scarcely given when I was 
forced to leave you, all shall be prepared the day 
after to-morrow. A carriage shall convey us to 
Goldsborough, w^here we may be united, and re- 
main till your father is reconciled. I have per- 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 295 

suaded our humble and respectable friend Mrs. 
Dawson to accompany us, thinking it would con- 
tribute to your comfort. All that remains is to 
confirm your consent, dearest, and name the hour 
on Thursday evening when I shall join you. I 
may not be able to speak to you unobserved. Write 
therefore your reply, and find an opportunity to give 
it me to-morrow evening, when I make my accus- 
tomed call. But if you cannot do so without 
suspicion, drop it into one of the vases in the 
piazza, where I will seek for it. I know this 
secrecy is repugnant to your nature as to mine, but 
we must yield to necessity. Remember, dearest, 
your promise has been given. All care, all delicacy 
and respect, shall attend you in this step, and the 
whole of my future existence shall study to repay, 
by every endearment and solicitude, this one inesti- 
mable blessing. Let your own heart prompt the 
reply to your ever devoted Greville." 

Gertrude pondered awhile upon this note, and 
then murmuring, "No, not to-night," she kissed it, 
placed it under her pillow, and retired to rest. 

Throughout the next day, her mind was in a 



296 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

pitiable state of anxiety and hesitation, and although 
she knew that her letter must be answered ; she 
delayed writing as if reluctant to give the fxnal de- 
cision. At last five o'clock struck. "He will be 
here directly," thought Gertrude. " This hesitation 
is folly. I will WTite ;" and she hastily left the 
drawing-room and ran up stairs. Her hand was on 
the lock of the door of her room, when she re- 
collected that Julia Leslie was seated there copying 
an intricate pattern of embroidery from a new dress 
Gertrude had brought from New York. Agatha's 
door opposite was ajar, and Gertrude, knowing that 
her Aunt was not at home, softly crossed the gal- 
lery, entered the room, and closed the door gently. 
The precise neatness every where visible in the 
apartments, told the character of its owner. On a 
small table near one of the windows stood a desk 
and writing materials. Gertrude sat down instantly 
and wrote her reply, but not without frequent pauses 
and great agitation. 

« I feel, dear Greville, that I am doing wrong, 
but I will not withdraw my promise. At seven 
to-morrow morning I will meet you, and trust in 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 297 

your noble heart and strong affection not to esteem 
me less hereafter for this one sacrifice of woman's 

pride. 

Gertrude." 

The closing of a door startled her. She listened, 
and heard Julia, whose step she recognized, leave 
the room opposite and descend the stairs. The 
note was folded and directed. Gertrude looked for 
a seal. There were several lying on the desk ; 
she took up one, and with a pre-occupied mind 
gazed vacantly upon it. But as she looked, some 
association made her of a sudden gaze more earn- 
estly. The setting was old fashioned — the device, 
quaint. It was a dove perched upon a branch, 
peering into a nest; the motto — "Look within!'' 
It was but a trifle it is true ; yet what memories 
does a trifle often recall ! It was a seal, she had been 
told a few days before, often used by her mother, 
and for that reason her aunt prized it. Her mother's 
sweet form arose in Gertrude's imagination, as she 
remembered being held up, a merry-hearted child, 
in the nurse's arms, to take a last kiss from that 
mother on her death-bed. That scene was imprinted 



298 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

on her infant mind, for she had wondered why 
every one looked so sad, and why the tears streamed 
from her mother's eyes while exclaiming — " God 
bless my child!" The motto on the seal assumed 
another meaning, and that same soft voice seemed 
now to murmur, in the more solemn signification of 
the phrase — " Loqk within !" 

She thought of her father, bereft of his chief 
comfort, having now only a daughter to cheer his 
lonely life, and his kind voice that ever breathed 
affection, seemed to send echoing from afar the 
admonition " look within !" 

Gertrude did look within — into that complicated 
recess — her own soul. She saw that the act she 
was about to complete would wring her father's 
heart : that the sweet ties of childhood and of filial 
love had power to strive against newer and more 
ardent feelings. She saw that selfishness, disguise 
it as she might, formed the basis of her present 
conduct. Onward and more powerful rushed the 
stream of pure affection and of infant memories 
coursing through every channel of her mind. She 
rose from her scat for the purpose of descending 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 299 

the stairs with the note, before her resolution should 
forsake her; but she felt unable to stir from the 
spot, and sinking again into the chair, buried her 
face in her hands upon the desk before her, and like 
the conscience-stricken disciple "wept bitterly." 

After some little time had elapsed, she w^as 
startled by an arm being gently wound round her, 
and her aunt's voice inquiring if she were ill. 
Stifling her tears, she muttered an excuse, and rose 
to go. But Agatha detained her, and drawing her 
into the chair again, sat down beside her. " Why, 
my dear child, do you avoid me ? If you are ill in 
body, my care may restore you ; if indisposed in 
mind, my sympathy may soothe you. If any little 
secret weighs upon you, confide in me, dear child. 
But first calm this passionate sorrow', and tell me, 
can I serve you." 

«< No, no : I am miserable : I do — I do want help. 
But not from you, aunt: not from you." — 

"And why not, Gertrude?" 

a I — I cannot tell you. Pray let me go." 

" Stay, my child, stay ;" Agatha resumed as she 
perceived the note lying on the desk. " What note 



300 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

is that you have been writing ? Is it not to Greville 
Drayton? You need not hide your face nor sob 
so piteously — confide in me, my love. As your 
dear father's representative — as the only relative 
near you — as one who loves you, darling, like a 
daughter — I am likely to prove as safe a counsellor 
as your, young school-mates, and certainly have a 
greater claim upon you. If you think the difference 
in our ages prevents my sympathizing with you, 
compose yourself and listen to me. You know I 
am not much given to egotism, therefore will for- 
give a narration of certain events in my own life. 
An old maid's romance may make you smile, per- 
haps, but recollect, I was not always old." 

So saying, she laid aside her bonnet and shawl. 
Gertrude dried her eyes, and resting her head upon 
her aunt's shoulder, gazed with a sad but eager look ■ 
in her face. Agatha kissed her fevered cheek, and 
smoothed the discomposed ringlets on her throbbing 
brow — then clasping her niece more closely in her 
arms, proceeded with the following narration : 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 301 



CHAPTER III. 

A noble fortitude in ills delights 

Heav'n, earth, ourselves, 'tis duty, glory, peace : 

As night to stars, wo lustre gives to man : 

Heroes in battle, pilots in the storm, 

And virtues in calamities, admire ! 

Young. 

««Long years ago, most people — (forgive my re- 
trospective vanity, Gertrude,) — most people thought 
me an agreeable, pretty young woman. But there 
was one whose opinion to me, outweighed all the 
rest. He was about my own age, and we loved 
each other dearly. I will not describe Lewis 
Thornton. He was" — and she smiled as she 
spoke — " all that Greville Drayton is, or seems to 
you. His father lived in Albany, but Lewis spent 
most of his time with an uncle in New York, where 
we then resided. Our attachment was of some 
years' duration, and at last Lewis asked me to be 
his wife. I consented, having alas, no one's incli- 
nation to consider but my own, and only stipulated 
26 



302 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

the necessity of his father's assent. Lewis wrote to 
him, and received his reply in the affirmative. Two 
weeks elapsed and we were most happy: when a 
letter arrived addressed to me from the elder Mr. 
Thornton. He said that upon reflection he consi- 
dered that my name coincided with that of a person 
he had long disliked ; and that if my late father was 
Richard Rusport of North Carolina, the husband of 
Agatha Walworth, (my mother's maiden name,) 
their child should never marry his son. That he 
had written to Lewis who refused to rescind his 
pledge, and that he now appealed to me to relin- 
quish Lewis, unless I wished him to be renounced 
and cursed by his father. I saw Lewas almost 
immediately after the receipt of this strange and 
cruel letter, and conjured him to reflect upon his 
father's threats. He continued firm in his adhe- 
rence, I intreated him to write again to his father ; 
he did so, but with no effect. Some time passed in 
this state of suspense. 

«I have now reached the object, Gertrude, for 
which I begun this story.^ — my trial and suffering. 
God knows how dearly we loved each other! 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 303 

Well, as I still delayed our marriage, Lewis deter- 
mined on making a final personal appeal to his 
father, and for that purpose bade me farewell. He 
was to write as soon as he had seen Mr. Thornton, 
as the mail conveyance w^ould arrive before him. 
Those were tedious days for travellers, and well I 
remember my agitation of mind during the interval. 
But that very absence proved a blessing. It afforded 
me time to reflect and resolve. I felt — Gertrude, 
mark me — that an unjust, and as it seemed, ground- 
less prejudice obscured my prospects of happiness, 
but I considered that I had no right to bring sorrow 
and family rancour upon any one, more especially 
on him I would have given my life to serve. I 
thought of the horror of a parent dying unrecon- 
ciled and unforgiving, and above all, I felt that as 
a christian woman, I ought not to prefer my own 
selfish happiness to another's future peace of mind. 
I knew that Lewis would not resign me, and there- 
fore I must make the sacrifice. As this conviction 
forced itself upon me, for whole days I could only 
sit and weep, as bitterly, my child, as you have 



304 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

done to day. But if I wept, Gertrude, I also 
prayed, and by degrees I gained resolution. The 
promised letter came, written in haste and agitation. 
It was brief: no wonder that I can repeat its contents 
now. " Agatha — my own Agatha," it began, " my 
father is inexorable — no matter. Our mutual affec- 
tion and my pledged honour are not to yield to an 
unfounded and cruel prejudice. In the sight of 
heaven you are my promised wife. Within twelve 
hours from the arrival of this letter I shall claim 
my bride." 

" My plan was formed. I requested my orphan 
brother who was a mere youth at home from sea — 
and your mother (then very young and lovely, Ger- 
trude,) to be with me on Lewis's arrival, that the 
presence of others might be a restraint to him, and 
a support to me. He came: long and earnestly he 
strove to persuade me, but in vain. At last, per- 
haps my efforts to maintain firmness made me seem 
cold, and he reproached me with want of affection. 
God grant, my child, you may never feel what I 
did then !— We parted friends at last, as friends part 



THE BIAIDEN AUNT. 305 

who are never to meet again. The next day my 
brother told me, Lewis had left New York, and 
before night I was in a raging fever." 

"My dear, dear aunt," interrupted Gertrude, 
<^ did you indeed never meet again?" "By the 
blessing of heaven, and the kindness of my friends," 
Agatha continued, "I recovered, to pray for a 
christian resignation, a cheerful content, which, as 
time rolled on, by God's grace I obtained. About 
three years after, I went with a party of friends on 
a summer excursion, and on our return we stopped 
at Saratoga, where by a strange coincidence, Mr. 
Thornton" — <■<■ Lewis ?" eagerly ejaculated Ger- 
trude. " No, his father — came according to his 
annual custom to the springs, and of course to the 
only inn the then obscure village afforded." 

" Did he know you ?" 

" No, he had never seen me ; and probably, 
while at the inn, never heard my name. I knew it 
was he, for he had been pre-eminent at Albany in 
the practice of the law, and was now Judge Thorn- 
ton. I was aware that he had married late in life, 

but had not expected to see him so aged and infirm. 
26* 



306 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

On the second night after his arrival, a fire broke 
out in the hotel. Its progress was arrested, but all 
efforts could not save the left wing, which the 
flames were rapidly investing. Every one had, it 
was supposed, left the building, and the last group, 
of which I was one, were descending the main 
staircase, which was yet free from danger, when 
one of the party cried, «I fear no one has thought 
to rouse Mr. Thornton, he will be suffocated.' I 
heard no more, but ran rapidly back towards the 
left wing, shouting forth his name. The first and 
second rooms, hghted by the adjacent flame, were 
empty. I opened the door of the third, the smoke 
drove me back, once more I advanced, while there 
was yet time to do so, without mad and useless 
risk. Lewis's father was lying, apparently senseless, 
across a small chest; I called to him and shook his 
arm violently. At last he heard me. The smoke 
was increasing, and grasping his hand as he rose to 
his feet, I dragged, rather than led him, into the air. 
We descended the main staircase rapidly and left 
the house in safety, when from the agitation I 
fainted." 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 307 

"And you saved him," cried Gertrude, « at the 
risk of your own life ?" 

" No, my dear child ; I ran little risk. What I 
did was the mere exertion of presence of mind. I 
had never known fear in any danger by fire." 

«« But to save hinij Aunt, who had so injured 
you!" 

"That was a thoughtless remark, my love," 
said Agatha impressively. " That being must in- 
deed be « desperately wicked' who, with even 
greater provocation, could coolly and wilfully suffer 
a fellow-creature to perish. I only obeyed the 
impulse of common humanity. I should not have 
related this egotistical event, but that you might 
understand the sequel. We were lodged in our 
neighbours' dwellings. All lives were saved. It 
appears that Mr. Thornton, (who had been carried 
to a physician's near us,) had on hearing the alarm 
of fire, hastily endeavoured to take down from a 
press, a small trunk of valuables ; but his strength 
failing, the box had slipped from his hands, and 
struck him to the ground. The hurt he had thereby 
received on his chest, was pronounced fatal. On 



308 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

the following afternoon, the physician, his host, 
brought me a letter dictated confidentially to him 
by Mr. Thornton. I will shew it to you, Gertrude.'" 

Agatha rose, and unlocking a small old-fashioned 
cabinet that stood near, took thence a little casket 
tied around with a faded ribbon. '« Undo the knot, 
Gertrude," she said, as she gave it. <'It has not 
been unfastened for eighteen years." Gertrude 
complied, and opening it, found two letters. Taking 
out one, Agatha gave it to her niece who read as 
follows : 

<« If you are the Agatha Rusport who was to have 
been the wife of my son, I beseech you to read 
these my dying words with patience. In my youth, 
I loved your mother, we were engaged ; a little dis- 
pute in which I own I was to blame, occurred 
between us, and to punish me, she encouraged the ■ 
attentions of Richard Rusport. It was a thoughtless 
but dangerous artifice. I remonstrated with her, and 
she declared she never would be my wife. She 
adhered to that resolution, and within a twelve- 
month married Mr. Rusport. I led a bhghted life 
fdr many dreary years, until I met Lewis's gentle 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 309 

mother ; about which time I lost sight of Agatha, 
who had buried two children since her marriage. I 
did not then know that Agatha had again been a 
parent. But the name made me anxious and 
inquiring,^ and hating your mother's memory, I 
vowed her child should suffer the pangs of disap- 
pointment and desertion, such as I had endured. 
On my death-bed I see the enormity of such feel- 
ings. I recall many circumstances that palliated 
your mother's conduct. You have saved my life : 
that deed, noble hearted woman, bespeaks your 
forgiveness. If you will confirm that pardon, I 
shall indeed bless you, but I ought not to ask it. 
Write to my son and tell him all this. As life is 
leaving me, such an act is no sacrifice of your pride 
for delicacy. I have not heard from Lewis for 
many months, he is in Mobile, write to him ; my 
blessing go with you and rest upon you both ! 

(Signed) Ezekiel J. Thornton." 

Gertrude put down the letter, and kissing Agatha, 
joyfully exclaimed, " Dear Aunt, then you w^ere 
happy, and yet, you never married — pray go on." 



310 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

Agatha smiled sadly at her niece's eagerness, and 
resumed. «' I went to Mr. Thornton, I forgave 
him ; he died in peace. A short time after his mter- 
ment I \Yrote to Lewis, enclosing a copy of his 
father's letter, and adding an encouragement, so 
worded as not to compromise my sense of womanly 
propriety or self-respect, implying that my affection 
remained unaltered. There is his answer. My 
child, read it." 

Gertrude did so. It was written in an agitated 
hand. " Common place thanks and gratitude would 
be an insult to you Agatha, noble-minded, self- 
abnegating as you are. A lifetime could not speak 
the overflowings of my admiration, of ray reverence 
for you. I will strive to imitate your generous self- 
denial and endurance. Heaven grant I may have 
strength to do so through life. How shall I tell 
you ? I cannot enter into detail — I know not how 
to explain by degrees. You were lost to me — for 
nearly three years I had not even heard your name. 

Your precious letter has arrived a month too late 

God for ever bless you, Agatha ! I am married ! 

Lewis Thornton." 



I 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 311 

Gertrude looked up as she concluded, with the 
tears glistening in her young eyes, and saw that 
Agatha was endeavouring to calm the emotion 
apparent only in the convulsive twitchings of her 
countenance. Gertrude laid down the letter and 
threw her arms around her. After a pause, Agatha 
partly regained her self-possession and said : " Since 
this recital has so affected me after a lapse of years, 
you may judge what my sufferings were in former 
times before my sense of duty — of rectitude — of 
submission to Providence, and above all, of grati- 
tude for the many blessings it has granted, taught 
me to lay aside sinful regret for the one blessing 
withheld." 

"And did you never see Lewis again?" 

<' Never." 

«f And did you never write to him ?" 

" Wherefore ? to affect an indifference he knew 
I did not feel — to offer congratulations which from 
me would have been an insult — or what would have 
been w^orse" — and her tones become more solemn as 
she spoke — " by perpetuating the remembrance of 
me, to have introduced repining into his heart — dis- 



312 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

trust and unhappiness into the bosom of his wife — 
and the sin oi mental adultery into my own soul." 

"Dear Aunt, I wronged you by the question," 
said Gertrude. "But you must have been mise- 
rable." "No, my dear girl, not miserable. Not 
perhaps as happy as in another sphere I should have 
been, but still resigned, and above all, contented. 
Rest assured, Gertrude, that when the first prostra- 
ting shock of grief is past, despair and misery rarely 
attend a mind at peace with itself. Look at that 
plant in the window, my child," she added, pointing 
to it, " which you thought destroyed by yesterday 
morning's storm ; the rain has bowed that yielding 
shrub to the earth, the wind has scattered its blossoms 
for a season, and even wrenched some branches away 
for ever ; but the root remains firm, Gertrude ! and 
when the glorious sun shall shed its warmth again, 
another spring will see that plant again thriving, 
erect and fragrant." 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 313 



CHAPTER IV. 

For while I sit with thee I seem in heaven, 
And sweeter thy discourse is to my ear 
Than fruits of palm-tree, pleasantest to thirst 
And hunger both, from labour, at the hour 
Of sweet repast ; they satiate, and soon fill, 
Though pleasant, but thy words with grace divine 
Imbued, bring to their sweetness no satiety. 

MlLTOS". 

"Our conversation, my dear girl, has been," 
Agatha continued, <' a long and serious one. Give 
me those letters, I will restore them to their case. 
I destroyed, as was my duty, all tokens or relics of 
Lewis's affection or my own, but I have retained 
these two letters lest I should one day need justifi- 
cation. My delicacy took a needless precaution, 
perhaps, for scarce any one remembers my trou- 
bles now." «' And have you never heard of Lewis .''" 
asked her niece. '' Never," she answered. "But 
remember, Gertrude, no one living except your 
father knows what I have this night told you. I 
should not have related it, (for such a detail of past 



314 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

affection is perhaps derogatory, or at least incon- 
sistent with the dignity that should attach to my 
years,) but that I hoped my own experience would 
more impress your mind than a whole volume of 
abstract principles and counsels." 

«< And you were right, dear Aunt. Painful as your 
frankness has been to you, it has wrought its end. 
Your disappointments have made mine seem lighter 
by comparison — your christian resignation and con- 
tent have shamed my repining heart, and made me 
blush for my lack of self-control. Dear Aunt," 
she continued, sinking on her knees before Agatha, 
and looking up in her face ; «« I place myself under 
your guidance — direct me — counsel me — support 



me 



f" 



" That is not enough, my darling girl. Prayer 
will bestow more fortitude than I can give. There 
is One Friend who never will desert — never will 
misguide you — apply to Him." 

<« I will, I do!" Gertrude murmured solemnly. 

*« Bless you, my child !" said Agatha, kissing the 
fair girl who knelt before her. And beautiful was 
the picture. Beautiful was the confiding inno- 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 31 

cence in the look of the younger : beautiful the 
affectionate benignity in the countenance of the 
elder. 

After a pause, Gertrude remarked: «< Dear aunt, 
he — Greville will soon be here. This is what I 
have written," and colouring deeply, she drew 
from her bosom the letter she had hastily concealed 
when Agatha before spoke of it. <« Read it," she 
continued, " don't blame me ! I know I deserve 
reproof, but don't blame me," and sobbing she hid 
her face in Agatha's lap. Agatha read the note, 
and raising her, said mildly—' You will not send 
this, Gertrude ?' 

" Oh, no !" she exclaimed, snatching and tear- 
ing it. 

" Then you will write another reply?" 

<«I will," she answered, still sobbing. ''But 
he will soon be here : it must be done at once ;" 
and she hastily placed herself at the desk before 
which she had sat with such different feelings two 
hours previous. "What shall I say?" << What 
your own heart dictates, my child." Gertrude took 
up the pen — laid it down. " Poor Greville !" 



316 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

she murmured. «« How can I tell him that" — 
A burst of tears came to her relief. Again she 
took up the pen, but her hand trembled so violently 
she could not trace a letter : then she paused to 
wipe away the tears that fell rapidly upon the 
paper. Agatha remained silent. She wished Ger- 
trude to acquire that inestimable blessing, the power 
to judge and act for herself. At last the note was 
written. Gertrude gave it to her aunt. Its contents 
w^ere these : 

"What can I say to you, dear Greville? I know 
you will think me capricious, vacillating ; I fear you 
w^ill be unhappy. I am so, indeed; but less • I 
wretched than before I made this resolution. Dear 
Greville, do not seek to persuade me again. Without 
my father's consent I can never be your wife, 
though never can I cease to love you." 

(These last words were almost blotted out with 
tears.) « Bless you, my dear, good girl," — said 
Agatha, laying down the note and lighting the 
taper. " Stay," cried Gertrude. «< Giv^e me the 
note again," and seizing the pen she added these 
words : < I act solely from myself, under a firm con- 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 317 

viction that I am at last doing right. Blame no one 
else. Forgive me.' 

"Aunt, you will give him this?" 

"No, my dear child, it is but just he should 
receive it as he expects from you." 

"No, I dare not see him. I know my own 
weakness. Let me at least be wise enough to shun 
temptation. If I see him," — and she smiled 
through her tears, "I fear I could not say no. 
That is his knock, I know it," she added : and as 
she spoke, 

" A thousand blushing apparitions started 
Into her face : a thousand innocent shames 
In angel whiteness bore away those blushes." 

Trembling with agitation, as her aunt offered her 
the light she folded the note, and sealed it with the 
same little seal she had before caught up. Agatha 
took the note and was leaving the room, when 
Gertrude said hesitatingly, "You will — that is — I 
mean, you will explain why I cannot see him. I 
would rather he should think me weak than heart- 
less. You can break all to him, but" — and she 
laid her hand on Agatha's arm, <« speak kindly to 



I 



27* 



318 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

him even if he blames me, for indeed I alone am 
in fault." 

"I will, I will, my darling, innocent girl," said 
Agatha, leaving the room as a servant was ascend- 
ing the stairs to announce Mr. Drayton. Gertrude 
listened till her aunt entered the drawing-room, 
whence sounded the hum of many voices. Then 
seating herself and leaning her head upon her 
hand she seemed lost in thought. In a few mo- 
ments she raised her head, and clasping her hands, 
murmured: "Father in Heaven; do not desert me 
in my trouble !" After this brief prayer her eye 
fell upon a paper that lay near her feet ; she took it 
up ; it was in Agatha's hand writing, but the colour 
of paper and ink indicated its having been written 
many, many years before. As the day was closing, 
Gertrude seated herself at the desk, and by the 
light of the taper which had been left burning, read 
the following verses. Their tenor plainly shewed 
their date was immediately subsequent to Agatha's 
farewell interview with Lewis : 



" 'Tis o'er ! We've parted, love, at last ; 
One pressure of the hand was given, 
While eager eyes on ns were cast : 



3 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 319 

We ne'er shall meet again ! All's past — ■ 
The farewell said, the fond luik riven : 

Thou know'st I love thee ! The warm flush 
Of shame is spreading o'er my brow, 
But still thou canst not see the blush, 
Nor hear the rapid words that gush 
To hide what I have owned e'en now. 

Thy tongue, that day, in accents blest, 
Confirmed the hope so dear to me. — 
Thy frequent tenderness, expressed 
By daily tokens, then confessed 
That I had long been loved by thee. 

I feel thou then didst read my heai-t, 

For though half breathed in wliispers low, 

My faltering words did a// impart. 

And yet — while tears of pride now start. 

Those words, would I recall them ? no ! 

Thou ne'er shalt know of streaming tears, 
Of nights in sleepless anguish past. 
Of struggles twixt my hopes and fears. 
Of days whose agony seemed years, 
Ere I could say farewell at last. 

Forget me, if thy lot be bright : 
Or shouldst thou think upon me ever, 
Be it as Sister fled thy sight. 
But if sharp cares thy spirit blight, 
I would not from thy mem'ry sever. 



320 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

No. Then I'd be the distant star, 
To shine upon thy dreary way : 
No earthly stain my Hght should mar, 
I'd cheer thee on thy course afar, 
With kind but unimpassmied ray. 

Thou lov'st — (and thou deserv'st it well), 
A home with sweet endearments decked ; 
May. this, my first affection's knell. 
Turn to a joy fill marriage bell, 
And peal through all thy life unchecked. 
****** 
Yet — though the love that I have borne for thee, 
Hath marred my future prospect of pure joy, 
I would not lose its sweet sad memory, 
That ever will my soul's chief solace be — 
No ! not for years of bliss without alloy ! 

I'll think of thee as of the sainted dead 
Passed into happiness beyond our view, 
From whom all mortal passions long have fled ; 
The wounds with which on earth our spirits bled 
Healed with faith, holy, changeless, pure and true. 

***** If: 

Bless thee ! Oh Bless thee ! And farewell ! 
Each link in memory's chain I'll sever 
That could my love hereafter tell. 
With prayer I'll break the mighty spell. 
All's past ! Once more, adieu for ever ! 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 33i 



CHAPTER V. 



II n'y a pas quelquefois moins d' habilete a savoir profiter d'un 
bon conseil, qu 'a se bien conseiller soi-meme. 

RoCHEFOUCATTIiD. 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
Let the dead past bury its dead : 
Act. — Act in the living Present : 
Heart within, and God o'erhead : 

LOBrGFELlOW 

At this moment Agatha returned. ''I have seen 
Greville, Gertrude. It is a sad shock to him ; but 
he says that perhaps you are right, and he will 
endeavour not to blame you. On entering the 
room, I remarked aloud that you were not well this 
evening, and in a few moments I went towards the 
window. Greville followed, asking if you were 
much indisposed; and we stepped out upon the 
piazza unnoticed by the company. I then gave 
your note and explained all. He was painfully 
agitated, but says he will go out of town for a few 
days, and hopes by that time to gain calmness 
enough to see you once more — but not again to 



322 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

persuade you, Gertrude — No ! I told him that a 
renewal of this struggle would endanger my dar- 
ling's health, and I believe him to be too generous 
to attempt it." 

Thank you : bless you, dear, dear aunt," said 
Gertrude, sadly, but firmly. " Here is a paper I 
found, it must have dropped from that casket. I 
ought not to have read it I confess, but I did so 
thoughtlessly. Pray forgive me." 

A faint tinge arose in Agatha's usually pale face 
as a cursory glance at the verses told her their sub- 
ject, and she remarked, «< I thought that had been 
destroyed with the rest. No matter," and she w^as 
about to tear it, but after a moment's thought, she 
folded it, saying, " I will place it in the casket 
again. It is only an epitaph on dead affection long 
ago entombed in the past." * * * "Now my 
dear girl, let me see you to your own room. I will 
send your maid thither, and account for your con- 
tinued absence," she said smiling, " by woman's f 
usual excuse — a head-ache ; that plea will prevent 
Julia's intrusion. Go early to rest, my child ;" and 
kissing her affectionately, she left her. When all 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



323 



the household were retiring for the night, Agatha 
tapped at Gertrude's door ; a faint voice inquired, 
"Is it you, Aunt ? come in." Gertrude was in bed. 
Agatha sat beside her, placing her candle on the 
table near, and its light shining full upon Gertrude's 
face, disclosed the colourless cheeks, the red and 
swollen eye-lids, the heavy drooping look, that all 
so plainly tell of hours spent in sorrow. 

"Gertrude," said Agatha, caressing her, «<I 
fear you are ill." 

"No; no; dear Aunt, I am exhausted — that is 
all. This is ray first heavy trouble, and I must 
expect to feel its weight. It has pleased God to 
give me fortitude to sustain it as yet, and I trust He 
will hear my prayer, and grant me support for the 
future. But is this all ? I have been reflecting, but 
my mind is so bewildered I can scarcely think. Is 
there no further sacrifice ? Must I be Stansbury's 
wife ?" 

"No, my dear girl; no. There are limits to all 
things ; the extreme of virtue itself is sometimes 
criminal ; duty may be carried too far. Your first 
obedience is to your parents or those who supply 



324 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

their place. You have no right to prefer your hap- 
piness to theirs, or to let voluntarily assumed duties 
and attachments outweigh the ties of blood and 
nature, or the care, love, and protection of years. 
Beyond this point, you owe a duty to yourself. 
And by word and act I would be most zealous to 
prevent your incurring so terrible a responsibility, 
so heinous and vital an error, as to become the wife 
of one man, while your heart w^as given to another. 
Your whole life would be an acted falsehood, — a 
daily and cruel injustice to your husband, and 
should events bring you in contact with the object 
of your regard, what would be your prospect? A 
continued struggle with temptation, or an abyss 
of misery and guilt. In some rare instances, a 
marriage of indifference, where the heart is not 
preoccupied, may result in strong regard ; but a 
self-immolating marriage, or a union from mortified 
pride, too frequently terminates in disgust and 
wretchedness. No, my beloved child, endeavour 
to regain content and happy peace of mind : you 
are very young, and time is the engine of the Al- 
mighty for soothing, gradual and effectual change. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 325 

If this attachment should wear away, and at some 
future period you should feel that you love Stans- 
bury, to the exclusion of Greville's memory, then, 
and not till then, accept his hand." 

«« Thank you a thousand times, dear Aunt. You 
do not know how much you have comforted me, 
my thoughts were similar, but I feared that I was 
not a dispassionate judge. Oh! what a weight you 
have taken from my heart," and with a deep sigh 
Gertrude leaned her head upon Agatha's shoulder, 
who murmured gently, 

" God's blessing be for ever with you, my own 
innocent girl. May He soften every trial that will 
fall to your lot, and raise up friends and happiness 
at an hour you least expect." 

Gertrude's eyes closed, and her head pressed 
more heavily upon its resting-place ; while in a tone 
scarcely above a whisper, Agatha's tremulous, but 
still sweet voice, breathed the following words to a 
soft and soothing melody : 

When grief would drive us to despair, 

While far jfrom every friend, 
To thee, our hopeful earnest prayer, — 

Lord, — daily shall ascend. 
28 



326 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

For thou the fainting wilt protect, — 

The desolate, sustain ; — 
Entreaty thou dost ne'er reject. 

To thee none plead in vain. 

If sad our lot is doomed to prove, 

Aid us the weight to bear ; 
If happy — let a life of love 

Our humble thanks declare. 

Our future course is in Thy Hand — 

Direct it as Thou wilt : 
But teach us tempters to withstand — 

Preserve us free from guilt ! 

Let Patience her sweet stores unfold, 

And every murmur cease ! 
Whatever else Thou dost withhold, 

Still grant content and peace ! 
That so our hearts, of holy love 

The dwelling place may be, — 
Till in Thy presence we shall rove 

Through blest eternity. 

Like an infant in its mother's arms, Gertrude 
slept peacefully. Agatha laid her head gently upon 
the pillow, and with motherly care arranged the 
covering around her — then kneeling down beside 
the bed, she offered up a silent prayer. Rising 
soon, and shading the lamp with her hand, with 
another glance at the unconscious sleeper, she stole 
softly from the room, and closed the door. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 327 



CHAPTER VI. 

'Tis man's bold task, the generous strife to try, — 
, But in the hands of God is victory.' 

Pope's Homer. 

At the expected time Captain Rusport arrived, 
assigning an insufficient excuse for the absence of 
Lieutenant Stansbury, and rejoicing to find his 
daughter's lovely mind and form alike improved. 
Gertrude also rejoiced to meet her father — and such 
a father! so fond, so indulgent, so provident for 
her every comfort ; the thought that she had been 
on the point of making him unhappy, by proving 
unworthy of his confidence, tended, unconsciously 
to herself perhaps, to increase her solicitude and 
affection. Greville had returned, and occasionally 
renewed his visits, — the captain seeming rather 
partial to him than otherwise.. Three weeks passed 
in gay society at the Leslies', and the captain 
returned with his family to Rusportville. 

One day, being left alone with his sister. Captain 
Rusport remarked upon the apparently faiUng 



328 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



health of his child. "I hope," said he, ^«it is not 
anxiety for Joe Stansbury that makes her so un- 
happy." 

An ambiguous smile was Agatha's only comment. 

<« I am in a terrible dilemma, Agatha," he con- 
tinued, «< about Joseph, and though I have put off 
explanation till now, the matter must be known at 
last. You know the wish of my heart has always 
been to see Joe and Gertrude man and wife. He 
is a generous, noble spirited young fellow. But — 
when we were stationed off Rio the last time, every 
moment's leave of absence he spent with an Ameri- 
can family there whom he had been acquainted 
with, when only a rattling young midshipman. I 
never knew the secret of the attraction until just 
before we left, when Joe after much hesitation and 
embarrassment, informed me that the daughter, a 
pretty lively girl, was as fond of him as he of her: 
and in the sorrow of going away, and the prospect 
of indefinite separation, he had persuaded her to 
an immediate marriage as her family approved of 
him. Poor Joe blamed himself for his ingratitude 
so severely, that I tried to make light of my disap- 



I 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 329 

pointment, and besides, one could not be very 
stem with a young man for so natural an offence as 
falling in love with a pretty girl when constantly in 
her company. He is now as happy as man well 
can be : but the mischief is, how shall I ever tell 
my darling girl ? I am afraid," he continued with 
a sigh, f« the news will go nigh to break her heart." 
«t No very great danger of that, my dear James," 
replied Agatha, with tears of joy starting in her 
eyes at the prospect of her niece's happiness. She 
immediately detailed to the captain the circumstan- 
ces of Gertrude's attachment, and shewed how 
nobly she had sacrificed her own inclination to his 
peace of mind. The result may easily be imagined. 
Gertrude's marriage with Greville Drayton, soon 
followed ; and with the love and blessings of her 
father and aunt, their future career exemplified that 
beautiful description of the poet : 

" An elegant sufficiency, content, , 

Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, 
Ease and alternate labour, useful life, 
Progressive virtue and approving Heaven. 
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love. 
And thus their moments fly." 

28* 



330 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



CHAPTER VII. 

Oh, if there is one law above the rest 
Written in wisdom — if there is a word 
That I would trace as with a pen of fire, 
Upon the unsumn'd temper of a child — 
If there is any thing that keeps the mind 
Open to angel visits, and repels 
The ministry of ill — 'tis human love. 

Willis. 

To Mrs. DRArroif, Rusportville, N. C. 

New Orleans, September, 1837. 

My dearest niece, I think my health is renovated 
by this journey and the kindness of the Leslies, 
^ut circumstances will prevent our being fellow 
travellers any longer. How anxious I am to see 
\o\x and my charming little namesake, who will I 
suppose be able to run alone to meet me on my 
return ! I cannot in this letter give you any account 
of my journey, for an event has occurred of such 
interest to me, as to exclude all other details. You 
remember what I once told you concerning Lewis 
Thornton ? Well, the Leslies and myself took ship 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 33] 

from Saint Augustine for New Orleans. We had 
few passengers ; one, an invalid lady, had been 
conveyed to her berth on first going on board, and 
we had never seen her. She was a widow with 
one child, a lovely, but delicate girl about twelve 
years of age, in a rapid decline. Every one was 
interested in the sweet child; and as I, you know^, 
am a good sailor, I proffered through little Mary 
any service I could render to her mother. I then 
learned her name was Thornton; adverse winds 
made our passage very tedious, and during that 
time, I became quite intimate with the sufferer. 
She was even amidst disease, a fascinating woman 
between thirty and forty years of age, and must 
have been beautiful. Her whole soul seemed 
wrapped up in her child, who faded, if possible, 
more rapidly than the mother. By degrees Mrs. 
Thornton voluntarily communicated her history. 
She was indeed Lewis's widow. They had long 
lived happily together : but consumption, hereditary 
on her side, had removed three children succes- 
sively in the course of the first fourteen years of 
their married life. Lewis was an exemplary hus- 



33^ THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

band; and remembering him as I do, I do not 
v/onder at his widow's adoration of his memory". 
Bat she said he was always of a melancholy dispo- 
sition from the first period of their acquaintance. 
His father'^s death, shortly after their marriage, had 
been a severe shock : the loss of their children 
made him more desponding: several speculations 
in his business proved unsuccessful, and at last he 
totally but honourably failed. Pride made him 
reluctant to reside in the place where he had once 
held so different a position, and he left his wife and 
sole surviving infant in Mobile, while he went to 
the Mexican province Texas. He toiled unceas- 
ingly to establish himself in a country where 
industry, activity and perseverance served instead 
of pecuniary capital. But soon, the Texans, con- 
sidering themselves oppressed, revolted ; hostiHties 
ensued, and Lewis forbade his wife to join him 
while the troubles continued. The Mexican gen- 
eral marched down upon Harrisburgh — the inhabi- 
tants fled — the females being unable to procure 
even a change of clothing; the men, from the 
instinct of self preservation, or the more patriotic 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



333 



love of home, joined the main body of the Texans. 
Lfewis had enrolled himself with the rest : and had 
he needed an incentive to courage, it was afforded 
in the news of the burning of Harrisburgh and the 
utter and wanton destruction of every comfort and 
means he had been accumulating. These, my dear 
Gertrude, are a few of the least horrors of war. 
God grant our country may never again behold 
them ! The victory of San Jacinto followed which 
decided the fate of Texas. Lewis was one of 
those who fell. When peace was somewhat 
secured, his connections in Mobile being known, 
Lewis's wife was told the melancholy truth. By 
her husband's death in that cause she became entitled 
to several privileges — among others to an important 
grant of land. And it was to claim these in case 
her child should survive, that she was now going 
from Saint Augustine, whither, by many sacrifices, 
she had obtained the means of conveying herself 
(previous to her husband's death,) with the last for- 
lorn hope of the consumptive. Is not this a sad 
story, Gertrude ? 

Providence be thanked for enabling me to alle- 



334 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

viate their distress ! I informed Mrs. Thornton that 
I had known Lewis in early life, and easy v/as it fur 
rne sincerely to promise to protect his child ; a pro- 
mise which seemed to blunt the acuteness of the 
widow's sufferings. She died in my arms. Oh 
Gertrude, Heaven forbid that you or yours, should 
ever be doomed to the cruel necessity of casting in 
the ocean the remains of one you love : never shall 
I forget that solemn funeral, nor the anguish of the 
poor child. She had nerved herself, contrary to my 
entreaty, to be present at the sad ceremony. With 
a respect, a devotion and sympathy that did 
honour alike to our fellow passengers, the captain 
and the humblest seaman, the melancholy event 
proceeded. The captain read the service provided 
by the Episcopal Church, and Mary, who leaned 
upon my arm, w^as soothed by the beautiful and 
impressive address. But at the words, " we com- 
mit," the captain made a slight pause, and then 
added the necessary variation of the text—" our 
beloved sister — to the deep until the sea shall give 
up its dead" — as the coffin enshrouded for the pur- . 
pose, w^as lowered over the ship's side. It seemed 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 335 

as though poor Mary had not reflected upon the 
painful mode of interment, for — as a splashing^ 
sound indicated that her mother's lifeless form had 
indeed reached the restless sea, with a shriek of 
agony she fainted. For the few remaining days 
of our voyage, her strength rapidly failed : but she 
bore her inevitable destiny with an angelic sweet- 
ness I never saw equalled. The day we landed 
here, I endeavoured to divert her thoughts by tel- 
ling her that she was to live with me as an only 
and beloved child, and that I knew you and your 
family would cherish her for my sake, until you 
loved her for her own. 

"My dear kind friend," — she replied, "your 
family will never see me. I shall have gone home 
before you meet them," and the frightful cough 
that interrupted her speech only confirmed the asser- 
tion. She continued as near as I can recollect, in 
the following words. "Do not think I grieve to 
die, for a helpless orphan will be happier in Heaven 
than on earth. Perhaps you think such an idea 
unnatural in a little girl like me : but you know I 
have seen much trouble, and sorrow teaches a great 



336 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

deal ; it makes us old before our time. Do not be 
angry that I talk of leaving you, for you have been 
very kind to me ; and night and morning, I pray to 
God to bless you, and thank him for sending you to 
comfort my poor mother and me. And there is a 
favour I would ask, but I am almost afraid, yet 
perhaps you will not say no ; it is the last I shall 
beg. Take me to Texas — I cannot when I am 
dead be laid by my mother's side," and a shudder 
passed over her at the recollection of that funeral. 
t'Then pray take me to Texas, and bury me near 
my father^ so that in the grave I may not be all 
aloney 

Inured as I am to endurance, Gertrude, I cannot 
dwell longer on this conversation — the last of any 
length I have allowed her to attempt. We are to 
set sail for Texas to-morrow morning, and may 
hope to arrive there in three or four days. Nor 
shall I leave Lewis's child until I have fulfilled her 
request. She may recover— but I fear, I fear. 

Yet amidst this sorrow there is still a saddened 
happiness for me. Not all this world's joys could 
one 7noment weigh, against the privilege of watching 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 337 

over Lewis's widow and orphan. It is an unex- 
pected blessing, an inestimable delight for which 
the whole remnant of my life is inadequate to thank 
my Beneficent Father. God bless you and yours? 
my beloved niece. I will write again on my 
arrival. 

Your affectionate Aunt, 

Agatha Rusport. 



39 



333 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 



CHAPTER Vm. 

But manv are my years, and few 
Are left rae, ere night's holy dew, 
And sorrow's holier tears, will keep 
The grass green where in death I sleep. 
And when that grass is green above me, 
And those who bless me now and love me, 
Are sleeping by my side, 
Will it avail me aught that men 
Tell to the world with lips and pen, 
That once I lived and died ? 

Halleck. 

To Miss A&atha Rcspoet, Rusportville, X. C. 

Galveston, {Texas,) April, 1839. 

It was indeed, my dear Aunt, a strange 

whim you will say, of Greville and myself "to go 
to Texas," but I hope the account I have just given 
of our journey, will afford you as much pleasure as 
the visit itself has given us. Your letters have been 
duly received, and we rejoice to find my dear father 
and our little ones are so well. We sincerely hope 
that Mr. and Mrs. Stansbury will not have left you 
before we return. 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 339 

I have only omitted one circumstance in our 
visit which possesses additional interest to you. 
The obliging captain of the steamboat ^« Friend," 
in which we descended from Houston to Galveston, 
in compUance with the general wish, detained his 
vessel more than two hours at the battle-ground of 
San Jancinto. I know not whether a year and a 
half since your return, have effected an alteration, 
but the description will at any rate be new to my 
father, though not to you. 

The ground is a spacious and beautifully undu- 
lated area; and as we rambled over it, a most 
intelligent friend who was of the party, gave us a 
succinct and graphic account, of which I will endea- 
vour to afford you an abstract. ^< On the twenty- 
first of April, 1836, the Texans," said he, " fought 
like devils — not men. I hope 1 may not live to 
witness such a scene again. Every man had per- 
sonal feelings to arouse the more savage portion of 
his nature ; the destruction of his home, the wreck 
of his property, or the deaths of private friends and 
comrades in arms. Maiiy Texans had by painful 
necessity been themselves compelled to destroy more 



340 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

than one settlement, the fruit of continued toil, 
rather than afford the enemy the opportunity of there 
establishing a garrison. The events occurring at 
the taking of the citadel. El Alamo, which had been 
defended for fifteen days in spite of the inferior 
numbers of the besieged, until only seven remained 
alive, were fresh in every mind. The memory of 
one of that little band, the brave and eccentric 
backwoodsman and member of Congress, Crockett, 
who, like a knight of old, was found dead with five 
Mexicans slain around him — the murder of Bowie, 
who was ill in bed, but still had made good use of 
the arms placed near him ; the heroism of Travis, 
who, with his last gasp, slew the foe from whom he 
had received his death-wound ; the ferocity of the 
Mexican commander Cos, who was reported, emu- 
lous of Achilles' immortal disgrace, to have insulted 
and mangled the dead body of the leader of the 
besieged ; the slaughter in cold blood, a few days 
after their surrender at Goliad, of Colonel Fannin 
and his troop of four hundred men, of which the 
ten or twelve who escaped gave a heart-rending 
relation ; the destruction of Harrisburgh and many 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 341 

adjacent villages and farms : all these circum- 
stances were vivid in the memories and familiar to 
the hearts of every soldier there. The Mexicans, 
who doubled the number of the Texans, fought 
well ; but their souls were not in the cause. The 
prisoners were numerous, for many flung their arms 
aside, crying for quarter, and exclaiming in the only 
English words they knew, — « me no Mamo ! me no 
Goliad V as if the asseveration of not having shared 
in those events, would assuage all wrath. General 
Houston was wounded, and carried after the battle, 
to the shade of yonder cluster of trees," said he 
pointing to them as he spoke, " and while there 
the Mexican General, Santa Anna, who had been 
captured while endeavouring to cross yonder stream, 
was brought to him a prisoner. The Texans did 
not recognize him in his disguise, or infuriated as 
they were with carnage and success, they might 
have sacrificed him. I stood near Houston when 
Santa Anna approached saying to him in Spanish, 
« General Houston, I am Santa Anna ; as your 
prisoner I have no fear ; the brave are always just.' 

Hearing these words, I ran out amongst the crowd, 
29* 



342 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

crying, « Santa Anna is taken!' Had you heard 
the shout or rather yell of joy which followed that 
announcement, you would never have forgotten it. 
The forbearance and courtesy shown to Santa Anna, 
and the peace that ensued to our infant republic, 
are now matters of history which you already know. 
But follow me," he added, "from this spot you 
can have an uninterrupted view." . 

The scene ^vas indeed beautiful. The deep blue 
southern sky, with scarce a filmy cloud to relieve 
its intensity of colour, canopied us amid the oppres- 
sive heat of an April sun. Before us lay the clear 
stream which detained the flying general, and in 
the horizon, the far distant trees beyond the plain. 
Behind us spread the shrubbery and brushwood 
skirting the Buffalo Bayou, where our steamer awaited 
us, while around and beneath our feet extended the 
gracefully undulated battle-ground, covered with 
verdure and enamelled with flowers of the most 
gorgeous and varied hues. Who could think such 
a spot had ever been the scene of strife and blood- 
shed. <'Here," continued our obliging companion 
as we followed him, "is the last object deserving 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 343 

attention." Near the shade of a few trees, some- 
what apart from the more open space, stand several 
wooden posts, rudely carved with initial letters and 
dates. Each post is placed at the head of a grass- 
grown grave. 

<<Here," he resumed, "upon the spot where 
they fell, are interred the remains of the eight brave 
Texans who died on that day." 

I approached, and thought of you, dear Aunt, for 
near the soldier's grave is one smaller than the rest, 
evidently that of a child, bearing this inscription : — 
c*M. T., 13 Sept., 1837." 

A thrill went through my heart, and checking my 
tears, I inquired: "Whose is -that little grave?" 

" There," our informant answered, "Zies the child 
of one of the slain, who on her death-bed, begged to 
be buried by her father"^ s side^ 

Plucking some flowers that grew near, for I 
could make no comment even to Greville, I slowly 
retraced my steps ; and with a last gaze at that 
lovely spot, at that spacious and isolated burial- 
place, our party returned to the boat, bidding a 
onof farewell to San Jacinto, i 



344 THE MAIDEN AUNT. 

Poor Mary Thornton ! You, dear Aunt, fulfilled 
her wish, and there her body rests in peace ! At 
night, when I pondered over the ramble of that day, 
I thought of that little grave^ preserving amid the 
stormy associations of war and hatred, the rainbow 
light of human tenderness and filial love. I reflected 
on the long and sad history unfolded within the 
brief sentence uttered by our guide, — a history of 
friendship and self-denial, of suffering and fortitude, 
of love unchanging through two generations. And 
doubtless many women whose career seems unevent- 
ful, whose characters appear calm and cold, would 
as well as yourself, if their histories were known, 
be found, like the English queen, to have their 
<« Calais" engraven on their hearts. 

J^ow^ whenever I hear a jest or see a smile at 
those of my own sex, who, like the poet's rose, 

" Withering on the virgin thorn, 
Grow, livej and die in single blessedness," 

I shall think o^you, dear Aunt. 

Yes ! you, one of that ridiculed class, «« Old 
MaidSj^^ are alone sufficient to rescue them all from 
contempt, and add dignity to the humblest, — your 



THE MAIDEN AUNT. 345 

life is a blessing to every one who knows you ; 
your good deeds are numberless on earth ; your 
christian faith and virtue will be rewarded in Heaven ! 
Adieu, my second mother! 

Gertrude Drayton. 



(Note. The eighth and last chapter describes a view which I 
saw ; and a narration of which I was an auditor. The tra-veller 
who now visits Texas, will hear the same account of the Little 
Grave as that given to Mrs. Drayton : and if it has not been since 
defaced, will see the inscription, 

"M. T., 13 Sept. 1837." 



The young girls remained awhile silent, reflecting on what 
they had just heard ; and then their clear voices " made the air 
musical," as each expressed her opinion of Anna's narration. 

Emma Willis, (the youngest of the party, except Anna,) was 
then called upon for her contribution ; and the almost unconscious 
hesitation with which she prepared to comply, prettily contrasted 
with Anna's previous playful self-possession. 

Anna commanded " silence in the court," and Emma read as 
follows. 



THE SISTERS. 

A TALE OF THE MISSISSIPPI. 



CHAPTER I. 

Wo to the youth whom Fancy gains, 
Winning from Keason's hand the reins ! 
Pity and wo ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind : 
And wo to those who train such youth 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal 
While on the stithy glows the steel. 

Scott. 

Some dream that they can silence, when they will, 
The storm of passion, and say, " Peace he still," 
But " thus far and no further," when addressed 
To the wild wave or wilder human breast. 
Implies authority that never can, 
That never ought to be the lot of man. 

COWPEH. 

Mr. Gordon, a wealthy and respectable merchant, 
had lived for many years in New York, when he 



348 THE SISTERS. 

was justly regarded as an honest man, and a kind 
husband and father. His wife, a woman of plain 
manners and warm feelings, had, like himself, risen 
from a grade of life far inferior to that in which she 
was now placed. Quiet by nature, with no excitable 
or romantic feelings, no keen sensibilities, no acute 
penetration, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon esteemed each 
other, were fond of their children, took them duly 
to church, and sent them duly to school, and often 
declared that <« though Clara was as merry as a 
cricket, and Adelaide had some nonsensical notions, 
yet they were both on the whole very good girls." 
A friend of theirs, a man of high standing, died in 
embarrassed circumstances, and with their usual 
kindness, Mr. and Mrs. Gordon extended every aid 
and attention that regard could bestow to the 
widow and her son, inviting them to reside in their 
house and retaining them there for some years, until 
Harry was old enough to enter into business. But 
truly tenfold were repaid the blessings shown to the 
widow. From her first sojourn in their dwelling 
she had displayed great affection towards the child- 
ren, which by Clara was reciprocated. Adelaide, 



THE SISTERS. 349 

though she respected, cared little for Mrs. Wilmot. 
The widow died, and left a daughter's sorrow in. 
Clara's heart. Young Harry Wilmot, now^ an 
orphan, went forth into the world to toil for compe- 
tence. The sisters grew^ in stature, years, and 
beauty. Clara possessed deep feelings and great 
firmness of purpose ; while Adelaide's disposition 
was energetic w^hether in right or wrong, her pas- 
sions strong, her resolution weak. She was ad- 
dicted to "castle building." She had from early 
childhood indulged an inclination for revery, which 
augmented with her years. Every hour unoccupied 
by necessary pursuits, she would devote to her own 
beautifully sketched visions of future happiness. By 
degrees she found such delight in these musings 
that she felt impatient when aroused from them, 
and after being interrupted would return to them 
with increased appetite. No tales of actual woe, 
no relation of a friend's happiness, no events in 
which her parents and her sister were interested, 
could excite her feelings more w^armly than the 
dreams of her own romancce. It may be asked, 

whit harm was there in the indulgence of these 
30 



350 THE SISTERS. 

dreams ? No other harm than that which must arise 
from idle revery ; the habit of so enlarging upon 
our own fancied cares, as to impair that interest and 
sympathy for others and for the every day occurren- 
ces of hfe, which the Almighty has implanted in us 
for the general benefit of mankind : the habit also 
of dwelling so intensely upon our own feelings, 
and of analysing them so subtilely, of so enhancing 
their importance on all trivial occasions, as to make 
the heart more susceptible to outward impressions, 
and less able to fortify itself against the indulgence 
of extravagant wishes or the inroads of inordinate 
passions. Adelaide formed dreams of future bliss ; 
and where is the day-dream of an imaginative girl 
in which the form of love does not appear ? He 
may but hover over the scene, it is true ; but still 
he is there, and the reflection from the golden 
plumage of his wings gives the last, richest bright- 
ness to the picture. Dwelling thus in a world of 
her own, Adelaide did not confide each thought to 
her parents or her sister, f ^ They w^ould not under- 
stand me," she would mentally exclaim, when 
her conscience at times reproved her for not impart- 



i 



THE SISTERS. 



351 



ing to them the outpourings of her fancy. Is not 
this the cant expression of all hearts that seek 
excuse for selfishness? The egotistical husband, 
proud of his lofty intellect or vivid imagination, 
flies from the society of a wife, to the dexterous 
adulation and artificial enthusiasm of others, hiding 
the workings of his mind from her who should share 
all, because, «fshe could not understand him." 
The lonely man, who has met with slight or repulse 
where he sought reciprocal nobleness of soul, retires 
within himself, and becomes a misanthrope, shrink- 
ing from the humanizing influence of social inter- 
course, and the consolations of friends, because, — 
" they could not understand him." The giddy 
girl indulges in the foolish romance of a puerile 
fancy, which ends at last in misery, and shuns a 
mother's counsels that might have saved her, be- 
cause — <« she could not understand her." Few are 
the minds that will not, when quickened by affec- 
tion, expand sufficiently to understand the sorrows 
of those they love ; and when we feel that we are not 
understood, we may be convinced it is frequently 
owing to some lack of benevolence or some excess 



353 THE SISTERS. 

of pride, exaggerated sensibility, or selfishness, in 
ourselves, rather than to defects in others. 

When the sisters were about fifteen years of age, 
an old friend of their father's, a merchant in New 
Orleans, wished his son to spend some time in New 
York, and during his stay there, requested Mr. 
Gordon to act as his guardian. George Stanley, 
(for such was his name,) w^as received as a constant 
and intimate visitor in the family. Heir to an im- 
mense fortune, accumulated partly by industry, 
partly by extraordinary but fortunate speculations, 
no pains, no expense had been spared in his educa- 
tion. His manners were attractive, his appearance 
even more so. A few months after that momen- 
tous period when Adelaide and Clara were to be 
"brought out," George w^as invited by a friend to 
accompany him in a tour through Europe. He had 
seen and learned all that his own country could 
afford of intelligence or refinement, and was glad 
to avail himself of his father's permission to enjoy 
those advantages which must be gained by a man 
of superior mind, in visiting the thronged cities and 
polished circles of the old world. 



THE SISTERS. 353 



CHAPTER II. 

The glory got 
By overthrowing outward enemies, 
Since strength and fortune are main sharers in it; 
We cannot but by pieces call our own ; 
But when we conquer our intestine foes, 
Our passions bred Vs^ithin us, — and of those 
The most rebellious tyrant, powerful love, 
* * * * # 

That's a true victory ! 

Massikgek. 

The beautiful twins were the belles of the season 

in New York. Lovely and intellectual as they 

undoubtedly were, their fascinations were greatly 

enhanced in the eyes of the fashionable world, by 

the report of the munificent dowry their father would 

bestow, whenever they consented to resign their 

state of " single blessedness.'- Time passed, 

George returned, and was constantly thrown into 

Adelaide's society. It could not be denied that he 

was struck by her beauty, interested by her mental 

attractions, and his ardent admiration was too 
30* 



354 THE SISTERS. 

marked to pass unnoticed. Adelaide's happiness 
had reached its height ; her dreams were breaking 
forth into still more enchanting realities ; she felt 
that George was the live embodying of all her 
bright visions. Feeling thus, it was easy for her 
to imagine that the mere fancy she cherished was 
love. By constant brooding on the thought, she 
made it of real importance and actually dreamed 
herself into an attachment. Clara's penetration, 
rendered more keen by her affection, suspected 
something of the truth. She considered the subject 
in its prosaic aspect. She knew and weighed in 
her mind what Adelaide thought unworthy of re- 
membrance : that Mr. Stanley, one of the few in 
this country who could boast of a descent from 
noble ancestry, was, as regards birth, an uncom- 
promising aristocrat ; and though he respected Mr. 
Gordon much, and felt his value as a friend and 
guardian to his son, would yet shrink from the 
contamination of uniting his family with that of one 
who had originally toiled as an humble artisan, the 
humblest of his class. Clara knew this, and wished 
in time to warn her sister, but scarcely ventured to 



THE SISTERS. 355 

do so, fearing to offend her. She had, besides, 
real distress of her own to struggle with ; and so 
day after day passed on and no confidence was 
established between the sisters. 

One morning, when Adelaide was absent on a 
ramble, Clara sat down in the tasteful boudoir 
appropriated to the twins, and opening her writing- 
desk, fulfilled her mother's wishes by answering a ■ 
few notes for her. Unable to find the memorandum 
of an address which she required, she ransacked 
every corner of the desk, and untied every parcel 
of papers in the search, until she had scattered 
everything into " most admired disorder." Having 
found what she wanted, she began to arrange her 
papers, destroying all useless memoranda, and once 
again glancing over old letters and other precious 
relics. In this task hours slipped away, unobserved 
by Clara. 

• Who does not know the charm of looking over 
old letters, if they were written by our former 
friends ; the very handwriting has an " old familiar 
face ;" the signature recalls to the imagination the 
form of him or her who traced the lines. We see 



356 THE SISTERS. 

them once again in our " mind's eye;" the events 
referred to, the passages containing long-forgotten 
allusions which we in vain endeavour to remember, 
— the very date, — conjuring up, as it does, a thou- 
sand associations as to what we were then engaged 
in, how we then felt, — throws a delightful spell 
around us. Then too. Memory, w^ith her potent 
wand, calls from their recesses all those sweet, but 
melancholy thoughts of affection, once felt, now 
faded, like " half forgotten dreams." The beings 
who then lived and loved, where are they now .^ 
Perhaps the hand that formed those delicate lines, 
lies in the tomb, borne hence in youth and hope 
from sorrowing friends, on the resistless pinions of 
decay. Perhaps the manly strokes that we now 
gaze upon w-ere traced by one who has since with- 
ered beneath an African sky, bearing the golden 
light of truth to the benighted heathen, or sunk 
beneath the ocean wave when on his way to seek 
in distant lands the competence that was to secure 
his dearest hopes. Perhaps the letter may recall 
one w^ho in the world's murky atmosphere had 
"stained the plumage of his sinless years;" and 



THE SISTERS. 357 

whom his friends would now rather number with 
the dead, than mourn as lost to honour and to virtue. 
Perhaps the letter speaks of one who loved us 
dearly, but to whom time and absence have given 
stronger, fonder ties : perhaps she, whose lively 
sallies were the outpouring of a happy trustful 
spirit, is now an honoured matron, the faithful part- 
ner of a husband's grief and joy, — the anxious tender 
mother of adoring children, — the duteous daughter, 
gently guiding her aged parents down the hill of 
life, and by that bright example securing to her 
own old age a prospect of similar filial duty. While 
reading these old letters we live again in the past ; 
the graves of Youth, of Love, of Joy, long buried, 
— open, and send forth the spectres of their ten- 
ants. Our hearts may have grown cold and cal- 
lous ; but like the statue of old, when the beams of 
association and remembrance first gleam upon 
them, the spirit that lies imprisoned within emits a 
sweet, but mournful sound, acknowledging their 
influence and answering their appeal. 

Similar to these were the ideas that floated in 
Clara's mind as she pored over the papers before 



358 THE SISTERS. 

her. The last she unfolded was one of a more 
recent date ; it was in her own handwriting ; and 
as she gazed upon it, a few tears fell and blistered 
the paper. Its contents were these : 

WHAT IS LOVE ] 

To know no joy, when he's away ; 
Yet scarce happy when he's nigh, 
Weighing well each word I say, 
Lest it should some thought betray, 
And the laugh not hide the sigh, — 

Is this love 1 

To wish that with a painter's eye, 
A poet's taste, he may adore 
Each beauteous form that passeth by ; 
Yet with a lover's warmth descry. 
In my face what he prizes more. 

Is this love ? 

For that blest day in stealth to pine 
When he a wife might seek in me ; 
IMight with me see life's sun decline, 
Till both this mortal frame resign. 
E'en while I know it cannot be, — 

Is this love 1 

To fear thai absence hath depressed 
His passion, — felt, but scarcely told, — 
To know one word of mine confessed 
Would call the secret from his breast. 
Yet die ere speak that word so bold. 

Is this love 1 



THE SISTERS. 359 

To feel, whene'er his name is heard 
A trembling joy, to fear allied, — 
To hear a music in the word 
Whose melody my soul hath stirred, 
Yet with indifference all to hide, 

Is this love 1 

To shrink from aught that e'er could tell 
To others' eyes what now I feel ; 
While blushes 'gainst restraint rebel, 
With pride's cold mask their warmth to quell, 
Yes — e'en by scorn the truth conceal, — 

Is this love ] 

To be amended, pleased, to hear 
From him correction's truths expressed, — 
Though flatt'ry's siren voice be near 
And strive to charm a woman's ear, 
Prefer reproof by him addressed, — 

Is this love 1 

To pray, (though with another shared,) 
That bliss may still his portion be 
By no untoward chance impaired ; 
While midst its brightness may be spared 
Some pleasing thought cast back on me, — 

Is this love 7 

To know that while of him I think, 
My heart expands, my hopes ascend : 
To seek to be more pure — to shrink 
From aught that's ill — from error's brink, — 
licst I should lose a darling friend, — 

Is this love 1 



360 THE SISTERS. 

To feel I do not Heav'n profane 
Though his name's uttered at its throne ; 
For my pure passion knows no stain ; 
A blessing still I hope to gain, 
Not for myself — for him alone, — 

Is this love 1 

God is our Father ! Mortal ne'er 
His loving, wise designs may scan. 
If 'tis His will we two should share 
Earth's ills apart, I'll not despair, — 
Contented pass this Hfe's brief span. 
And hope for happiness above, — 
Oh ! tell me is this woman's love 1 

So absorbed was she in the contemplation sug- 
gested by these verses, that she was not aware that 
Adelaide had entered the room and was seated 
opposite, until an exclamation which she uttered 
startled Clara from her revery. '<• Good heavens ! 
Clara," she cried, <' What is the matter ? What 
are the contents of that paper, that have such 
power to agitate you ? May I not see it .'' What 
is it.? A love letter.?" She added laughingly, as 
she saw Clara's self-possession returning. 

Blushing at the question, even though asked by a 
sister, Clara hastily endeavoured to fold the paper. 

't Oh very well ; it's a secret then? I am satisfied. 



THE SISTERS. 361 

Do not think I wish to intrude upon your confidence, 
Clara. Believe me, I did not mean to grieve you." 

i' 1 do believe it, Adelaide, and I am ashamed of 
my own folly. This was not intended for any eyes 
but mine, yet I know not why I need conceal it. 
Read it, Adelaide, do not refuse, I request you to 
read it." Adelaide did so. 

««And do you think, Clara," she added archly, 
as she looked up after perusing it, «< that a woman 
w-ho loved with the fervour here described, could so 
calmly and contentedly look forward to her lover's 
union with another ? I doubt it." 

" Doubt it not, Adelaide, it is possible if the 
struggle between good and evil is not too long 
delayed. If any passion be allowed to gain entire 
ascendancy over the heart, it may be a death stroke 
to tear it away. We should labour to crush it in 
its infancy before it attains too formidable a growth." 

"And do you attach no importance to strength of 

mind, that when temptation comes w^e may be able 

to resist it ? Can we not call back our fancies at 

will, when we find them straying too far, and drive 
31 



362 THE SISTERS. 

them into a different course before they become 
passions ?" 

" Do not judge thus proudly, Adelaide. A pas- 
sion is too often merely an amplification of a fancy 
that we have indulged and dwelt upon. It is not 
for inexperienced minds like ours to determine the 
point where imagination ceases and passion begins.. 
That the former, unless checked in time, will at last 
swell into the latter, and thereby lose its purity, no 
one can doubt." 

" Quite a philosopher, lady Clara. I protest you 
seem to have reflected much on the subject. But, 
dear sister," she exclaimed, her light laugh dying 
away as she gazed upon the verses she still held, 
('<- this does not explain your agitation. Your eyes 
are full of tears now. Why Clara !" she cried, as she 
dropped the paper, and running to her sister, 
passed her arm round her and sunk on a seat by her 
side, «' surely this is one of my own wild dreams. 
Do those verses speak your thoughts ? Can it be 
that you have felt the truth of the arguments you 
used just now? Why what a fool I have been not 



THE SISTERS. 363 

to reflect. I see it all. That is the reason why Harry 
Wilraot trembled and hesitated as he took his leave. 
That is the reason why he has never called since, 
though I met him only to-day on the Battery." 

<« You met him, Adelaide ?" 

" I did ; I only spoke a few words to him ; he 
seemed confused, and hoped that my sister was 
well. Why Clara ! what does this riddle mean ? 
I should have thought 'him too diffident ever to tell 
you that he loved you." 

"He did not, Adelaide. He behaved most 
honourably ; he declared to my parents that he 
loved me, but that being bound to them by every tie 
of gratitude and duty, he would not breathe his 
hopes to me without their sanction. They told him 
what I believe they really think, that it was but a 
childish fancy that would wear away. But they 
repeated this conversation before me, and unused to 
conceal my feelings, my confusion was so great, 
that" — « That they discovered that you loved him." 
« Yes, Adelaide, with a love such as those verses 
describe — a pure and unselfish love — I may say with 
truth." 



364 



THE SISTERS. 



"What did they say?" 

" They were surprised and grieved ; but my 
father's resolution is taken. He has known the 
bitter struggles of a life toiling for affluence, and he 
will not suffer us to marry unless it be to fill a sta- 
tion equal to our present one." '<• Dear Clara," 
said her sister, kissing her affectionately, " I never 
coax, you know, but I will do so now. Father is 
very rich, and a sacrifice of but a part of his super- 
fluity would make you happy." 

" Generous, energetic girl, how shall I thank you 
for your offer ? With the warmest affection of my 
heart. But it must not be, Adelaide. Harry would 
not live upon my father's unwilling bounty ; and I 
should despise him if he would. Besides I am 
proud too, in my own way, sister. I am, though 
you seem to doubt it. I could not endure to see 
my husband received on svfferance by my parents, 
the husband whom I revere as deeply as I love him." 

" But your resolution has caused you much pain." 

«<I know it, but it cannot alter. It is true there 
have been many, many moments, when bright 
dreams have risen before me of future days passed 



THE SISTERS. 365 

in the society of one whose affection is mine. But 
my father's decision has crushed those prospects ; 
and though I cannot wholly forget, I have repressed 
all repinings which would have been alike ungrateful 
to God and cruel to my parents, while they would 
have proved destructive to my present peace of 
mind, and marred my career of usefulness to others. 
And how was this done? Not by confidence in 
myself, not by forming a code of moral principles 
by which to abide, bat by praying to my Maker 
Who has heard my prayer. Yes; it was God's 
strength, and grace, and holiness, that enabled me 
thus to act, and to Him alone do I look for support 
for the future." 

<' You are an angel, Clara," cried Adelaide 
rapturously, as she pressed her more closely to her 
heart. 

" No indeed, sister," returned Clara, smiling 
through her tears. ''lam but a Christian woman 
who relies on God that ' He will not suffer her to be 
tempted above that she is able, but will with the 
temptation also make a way to escape, that she may 
be able to bear it.' Dear Adelaide, I am ashamed of 



31 



366 THE SISTERS. 

my egotism, but it is for your sake I speak. Should 
you ever be situated as I have been, I entreat, do as 
I have done ! Humble yourself and pray ! You 
have not enjoyed the advantages I possessed in Mrs. 
Wilmot's kindness ; you were not like me made to 
love the Bible and look to its precepts as rules of 
conduct through life. But young as I am, let her 
voice speak in mine. Let us not be united merely 
in blood or earthly regard, let us be sisters in soul ; 
let our religious duties be fulfilled together ; it will 
be a new and precious bond of union between us. 
I blame myself most bitterly for not having spoken 
so directly before, but I was foolishly timid. Oh 
promise me, Adelaide, — mind, I do not ask you to 
decide hastily, — promise me to think on what I have 
said : and as one hour gave us both existence, so 
side by side let us unite in daily prayer." 

" I promise, Clara, dear Clara, I never knew your 
value until now." 

The sisters parted better and dearer friends than 
ever ; and that day and the next, Adelaide certainly 
felt the impression of her sister's words most strongly. 
But as that impfession faded, her besetting sin, her 



THE SISTERS. 367 

pride, crept in upon her hours of prayer; and 
though her knee bowed low, her heart wandered 
from the duty she was performing and refused to 
bend before the throne of Heaven. Then, instead 
of viewing this as an additional reason for redoubling 
her efforts at devotion, she fell into the too common 
error of confounding perseverance with intentional 
hypocrisy, and of ceasing to pray because she did 
not love prayer. It is true she thought of what her 
sister had said, but it was in her usual way, by 
sketching scenes in which her fortitude, dignity, and 
piety w^ere brought to severe trials, were triumphant 
and rewarded. She forgot that in real life these 
great trials occur but seldom, while every hour 
brings with it occasions for practising minor virtues, 
for combating small vices, and for endeavouring to 
break those «« diminutive chains of habit which are 
scarcely ever heavy enough to be felt till they are 
too strong to be broken." 



36S THE SISTERS. 



CHAPTER III. 

That man Tvas never bom whose secret soul 
With all its motley treasures of dark thoughts, 
Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams, 
Was ever opened to another's scan. 

J0A>'>'A BaILLIE. 

Celui qui n'a point senti sa faiblesse et la violence de ses pas- 
sions, n'est point encore sage ; car il ne se connait point encore, 
et ne salt pomt se defier de soi. 

Fexi:lo:s-.- 

About this time, unfortunately for Adelaide, 
a party of friends offered to take Clara with them 
on a visit to Charleston, in which delightful city 
they were to pass the winter. The delicate health 
and subdued spirits of Clara induced her parents 
to yield a ready consent, and in some haste she 
departed. Adelaide was thus left v>'ithout a confi- 
dante or monitor, and her heart daily became more 
and more interested for George, whose more than 
brotherly regard, though not declared, was ta- 
citly manifested in his conduct. His attentions it 
is true, were not so marked as to be unequivocal; 



THE SISTERS. 



369 



but as we all know, there are in every-day inter- 
course a thousand little circumstances, almost too 
minute to be defined, pecuhar tones, looks, or man- 
ner, — that indescribably convey volumes either of 
affection, dislike, or total indifference. Mr. and 
Mrs. Gordon, as is not an uncommon case among 
parents, saw nothing; and even had it not been so, 
the injudicious fondness of the latter, long contin- 
ued, had flattered Adelaide into the belief that she 
was by nature and education such a superior being 
that advice or guidance from one whose ideas were 
as circumscribed as her mother's, was neither im- 
portant enough to be solicited, nor offered. 

At this period, George received a letter from his 
father, who had gone to Michigan to inspect some 
land he had lately purchased, requiring his son's 
immediate presence. The elder Mr. Stanley had 
been seized with a severe illness, and in alarm had 
instantly written to his son. 

Affectionately, tenderly, did George take leave of 
Adelaide ; his farewell to her was evidently of a 
more heartfelt nature than to his other friends. A 
few hours' notice saw him on his journey. For a 



370 THE SISTERS. 

month after his arrival, his father lingered, and then 
left him an orphan. Deep was his grief, and like 
Rachel, he refused to be comforted. He remained 
absent from his friends, and when the first year of 
mourning had expired, Mr. Gordon received a 
letter from him stating that he had gone to Louisi- 
ana. Poor Adelaide was of course melancholy. 
Clara again gladdened the quiet fireside, her health 
restored, her heart resigned, — happy in the con- 
sciousness of duties performed and in the presence 
of tranquil hope. 

News at last came of George Stanley ; he was 
about to marry a young lady in New Orleans. 
Surprise was the predominant feeling of all. But 
what were Adelaide's thoughts ? She knew that 
she ought now to forget him. But could she do 
so ? She was now to act upon the bold assertion 
she had made. She was now to bid the troubled 
waves of passion roll back, but as with the Danish 
king, they obeyed not her commands. No eye 
witnessed the conflict. Pride withheld her from 
communing with her sister or her mother; thus like 



THE SISTERS. 371 

the Spartan boy she concealed her tortures, prefer- 
ring to die rather than reveal them. The love 
which through mere revery and romance she had 
at first cherished, had gained new strength from 
the belief that it was returned. Report soon reach- 
ed the city that Mr. Stanley and his wife were 
coming thither, and the lady's reputed beauty and 
her husband's known wealth led to the supposition 
that she would be a bright star in the gay circles of 
fashion. She came. Report had not belied her. 
She was the reigning queen of the season. On 
their first arrival, George's friends crowded round 
to welcome and congratulate him. Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon were most eager in their hospitality. They 
looked upon George almost as a son, and were 
anxious for his sake to show all kindness to his 
wife. On their first visit the sisters were, by the 
calling in of some acquaintances, prevented from 
accompanying them, but with all the warmth of 
that old-fashioned frankness now so seldom to be 
met with, they insisted upon Mr. and Mrs. Stanley's 
returning home with them to pass a quiet social 



372 THE SISTERS. 

evening. As they entered the drawing-room, Clara 
advanced to George, who after pressing her offered 
hand w^ith respectful warmth to, his lips, turned 
with equal warmth to introduce his bride. <«I shall 
claim you as an old friend as well as George if you 
will permit me, my dear madam ;" said Clara with 
her habitual enthusiasm. Then as the bride grate- 
fully responded to this appeal, Adelaide approached. 
With some embarrassment, George took her hand, 
but raised it not to his lips, and bidding him wel- 
come in a firm tone, she withdrew it calmly, though 
the (■(• mantling blood in ready play," covered 
cheeks, and brow, and neck. Hastily she advanced 
to his wife and with trembling eagerness bade her 
welcome. The bustling kindness of Mrs. Gordon 
interposed, and unconsciously prevented the embar- 
rassing pause that must otherwise have followed. 
Agitated by the affectionate greetings she had receiv- 
ed, the bride saw not George's confusion nor Ade- 
laide's painful blush, and as other relatives assembled 
and the conversation became general, the evening 
passed happily. Mrs. Stanley and Clara seemed 



THE SISTERS. 373 

to be mutually pleased, and from George's friend- 
ship with the family, felt as though they had long 
known each other. 

Who shall lift the veil from Adelaide's heart 
when that night she retired to her apartment ; who 
shall describe the woe that burst forth in smothered 
sobs as she buried her face in the pillow lest the 
sounds should pierce the thin partition that sepa- 
rated her from her sister ! * * This trial, if trial 
it was, was daily renewed. Constant and familiar 
intercourse was kept up betwixt the Stanleys and 
the Gordons. Adelaide strove to drown in gaieties, 
and the excitement of society, the feelings that 
oppressed her — but in vain ! she found it impos- 
sible to avoid the presence of him who was still too 
dear, and she feared to make her avoidance marked 
lest it should create suspicion of the truth. She 
tried to view Mrs. Stanley with sisterly regard, but 
a sort of loathing seemed to rise within her at the 
mere sound of her voice. Worse too, — amidst all 
George's scrupulous attentions to his wife, attentions 
too pointedly paid to be the outpourings of real 

affection, she saw that he had not forgotten times 
32 



374 THE SISTERS. 

long past, too well remembered by her. As the 
struggles between right and wrong became more 
vehement and their separating line less palpable in 
her mind, her spirits grew unequal, now wild w^ith 
mirth, now listless with sorrow. Clara often sought 
to speak with her, but with intuitive skill she would 
turn the conversation to merriest topics, and zeal- 
ously avoided being left alone with her for a 
moment. 



THE SISTERS. 375 



CHAPTER IV. 



-Call up thy noble spirit, 



Rouse all the gen'rous energy of Virtue, 
And with the strength of heaven-endued mart, 
Repel the hideous foe. Be great : be valiant : 
if thou could'st ! e'en shrouded as thou art 
In all the sad infirmities of nature, 
What a most noble creature wouldst thou be I 

JOANITA BaILLIE. 



-To nobler worlds Repentance rears, 



With humble hope, her eye ; to her is given 
A power the truly contrite heart that cheers ; 

She quells the brand by which the rocks are riven — 

She move than merely softens, she rejoices Heaven. 
Then patient bear the sufferings you have earned, 

And by these sufferings purify the mind : 
Let wisdom be by past misconduct learried : 

Or pious die, with penitence resigned : 

And to a life more happy and refined, 
Doubt not you shall, new creatures, yet arise. 

Thompson. 

So months flew on. Mrs. Stanley was taken ill, 
and as Clara, who had been to visit her, announced 
the fact on her return, Adelaide trembled exces- 



376 THE SISTERS. 

sively and sank upon a chair. Why did she so ? 
that question she asked herself, and as her wavering 
weak heart answered, the horror of the half framed 
thought within her made her unconsciously utter a 
shrill cry. All present ran to her assistance. Sud- 
denly and eagerly she accounted for what she called 
her folly, by an acute pain which had all day 
oppressed her heart, and which her emotion of 
regret at the news of Mrs. Stanley's illness had 
increased. This answer satisfied her unsuspecting 
parents, who attributed her indisposition to over 
fatigue during the day. With fond care she was 
comforted and nursed, and after an early and tempt- 
ing meal which Mrs. Gordon's own watchful hands 
prepared, but which poor Adelaide could not taste, 
she was taken to her room, to seek undisturbed 
rest. — ''Do not stay now, dear Mother, Clara and 
my maid are here. I shall be well to-morrow. 
Pray join the family below. Good night." 

Assured by her calm words, her mother kissed 
and left her, saying that she would go immediately 
to Mrs. Stanley's and offer her assistance. Ade- 
laide dismissed the maid, and then, turning to 



THE SISTERS. 377 

Clara, said, " Sister, I feel I shall be better when 
alone. I have no wish to sleep, and shall read till 
I grow weary. I need no help: pray go down, 
Clara, you can do me no good, and are depriving 
yourself of pleasure. Good night." 

«<I will go, Adelaide, since I can do you no 
good,'''* she echoed sadly : «« good night, sweet 
sister, God bless you." She kissed her fondly and 
not without emotion. Adelaide answered not: and 
Clara left the room and closed the door. As the 
sound of her footsteps died aw^ay upon the stairs, 
Adelaide mentally ejaculated : " And w^ill God bless 
me ? Will he ever bless me again ? Wretch that 
I am, w-hat thoughts have I indulged ; I have con- 
templated the possibility of George's being set free 
from all ties, without daring to ask even my Own 
heart, how the release was to be accomplished ; 
unconsciously I have wished the death of another. 
That was the hope that made me shriek at the 
idea of my ow^n guilt. The eternal voice of heaven 
declares to the soul as w^ell as to the hand, Thou 
shalt do no murder, and with that w-arning in my 

ears, I have defied it."- 

32* 



378 THE SISTERS. 

Who that could have seen her then would have 
believed she was the same innocent and therefore 
happy being, that had welcomed George on his 
first visit to their family! A blight had passed over 
her beauty, and she seemed like the ^'star bright 
apostate," an " archangel ruined." Could any 
one have told her six months before^ that she w^ould 
so cherish her clandestine love, that it would at 
length grow sinful and murderous, Adelaide would 
have spurned the supposition. She had at first 
weakly soothed her heart by this too pleasing 
sophistry: <'itis no crime to love one who is in 
every way most worthy, and if the report of his 
marriage be true, I can at once forget him; I could 
not retain affection for a married man." Vain sub- 
terfuge to silence conscience ! — Her thoughts, once 
her slaves, were now her tyrants. The reflection 
of what foul inmates she had taken into her soul, 
urged her almost to frenzy. She paced up and down 
the room with violent rapidity, as if by bodily 
exertion to exhaust her «« thick coming fancies." 
" 'Tis true then, I have loved him : I do love him 
still," she unconsciously exclaimed aloud. The 



THE SISTERS. 379 

sound of her own voice startled her, and involun- 
tarily she cast her eyes behind her as though fear- 
ing she was not alone: then though no ear could 
hear the words, no eye could see that her lips 
pronounced them, the deathly sickness of the soul's 
shame seized her, and bowing her head she buried 
her face in her hands, then raising her head with a 
slight shudder, she again paced on ; her left hand 
pressed against her temples whose burning and 
swollen veins made it feel of corpse-like coldness, 
her right grasping her throat, striving vainly to 
check the convulsive choking that almost strangled 
her. Tears that flow rapidly and easily down the 
cheek, reheving as they fall, spring not from guilty 
anguish: such weeping is often a solace to the 
bosom unassailed by remorse. The tears that 
singly swell around and linger on the lash, blister- 
ing in their moisture, but flowing not, while the 
eye aches with fiery pain, these are the tears of 
agony where bitter self-reproach is mingled. Such 
were the tears she shed. Conscience then cried : 
Weak and presumptuous woman, how canst thou 
know that thy internal passion wilt content thee ? 



380 THE SISTERS. 

Wilt thou endure to love, and unlike every other 
human heart, not crave for some return ? The idea 
was horror : wildly she shrieked forth, «< God help 
me, whither am I going?" and sunk upon the 
seat beside her bed. As the tumult of her mind 
abated gradually, her eyes, wandering around, fell 
on the small stand before her. There lay the pre- 
cious volume which the widow had bestowed to be 
her solace, counsellor, and friend. Why not con- 
sult it now ? Alas, it had so long been laid aside, 
or only studied by the eye as a mere form, that its 
rich blessings were unknown to her. She knew 
not where to look — what page, what holy writer to 
select in which to find advice or support. Oh! 
had her parents made her familiar with that Book 
of Life !— But to repine now was useless, and 
worse than useless ; it was sinful. For her kind 
and gentle sister, as well as the pale and resigned 
widow, had proffered the very aid she once rejected 
but now sought. Distressed she opened the volume, 
turning over leaf after leaf, not knowing where to 
pause, when the narration of ^^that disciple whom 
Jesus loved," arrested her attention. Her eye 



THE SISTERS. 381 

glanced down the page ; it related the history of 
the adulteress who by the law was doomed to death, 
but to whom the Saviour said ''Go, sin no more." 
Breathlessly she read on, and the fearful appropri- 
ateness of the tale to her own thoughts startled her 
inmost heart. Was she as guilty as the woman 
whose condemnation the vicious world mercilessly 
sought.'' Man would say, no. But conscience 
dared not answer. Spotless in ad^ her soul had 
deeply sinned. The direct simpleness of scriptural 
language, the strong unvarnished expressions it 
employs, washing the whiteness off the sepulchre, 
and calling crime and vice by their own names, 
spoke truths no artifice could evade, no fear could 
deny. The Bible shewed no degrees of error ; the 
flimsy cant of Platonic regard^ of the irresistible 
force of sentiment, of an imiocent interchange of 
soul, found no shelter there." Like the wretched 
woman of whom she read, she owned that He 
before whose eye her pride bowed down abashed, 
was the Lord. " Neither do I condemn thee," 
sounded in her ears ; to her excited mind it seemed 
an especial warning, and as her eyes still pored 



382 THE SISTERS. 

upon the page, she glided from the chair, and sink- 
ing on her knees before the sacred volume, with 
her hands clasped in supplication, the first fervent 
prayer of genuine humility burst from her lips. 
Long she prayed, and when she had ceased she 
still remained kneeling, her head supported against 
the stand, in that hstless vacancy of mind that 
so often follows violent mental conflicts. A gentle 
tap at the door aroused her; rising to her feet, she 
mechanically said, « come in," and Clara entered. 
"What? not in bed yet, sisterl" she exclaimed. 
But her tone changed to alarm, as she saw Ade- 
laide's unnatural expression of feature. Since she left 
the room, Adelaide had passed those terrible mo- 
ments, which occur once, and sometimes but once, 
in the life of almost every one : <■<- moments, in which 
we live years," in which we often gain more know- 
ledge of ourselves, of the depth of our feeUngs, the 
redoubtable strength of our passions, than we other- 
wise learn in a whole existence ; moments which per- 
haps influence the whole tenor of our future career, 
giving a new impulse, a different aim to our cha- 
racters, — moments in which the mind often passes 



THE SISTERS. 383 

from the fragility of girlhood to strongly marked 
maturity. Clara cried eagerly : <« are you ill, Ade- 
laide ? What is the matter ?" Adelaide gazed at 
her for an instant, and the blood rushed to her 
temples and spread over face and neck in one deep 
painful glow; then clasping her arms around Clara, 
she gasped forth, " Oh Sister :" and burst into an 
agony of tears. No further words were needed ; 
that look, that flush, that exclamation told all ; 
Clara read each page of her sister's heart — its 
struggles and its trials, but she spoke not of them. 
Locked in each other's arms they wept long and 
unrestrainedly, and when relieved by this gush of 
feeling, Clara whispered " now Sister, let us pray!" 
they both knelt down and the twin voices of their 
two hearts ascended to Heaven together. 



384 THE SISTERS. 



CHAPTER V. 

A thousand miseries make silent and invisible inroads on man- 
kind, and the heart feels innumerable throbs which never break 
into complaint. Perhaps likewise our pleasures are for the 
most part equally secret, and most are borne up by some private 
satisfaction, some internal consciousness, some latent hope, some 
pecuUar prospect, which they never communicate, but reserve for 
soUtary hours and clandestine meditation. Johnsox. 

Such a vehement struggle between the worse 
and the better nature could not leave the frame 
unscathed. Long was the illness that followed that 
eventful night, and when Adelaide returned to 
consciousness and strength, she learned that Mr. 
and Mrs. Stanley had gone to Louisiana, where it 
was thought her native air would restore the latter's 
wasted health, which the keen northern winter had 
severely tried. Adelaide recovered : her cheeks 
again flushed, her eyes again beamed as before 
with youthfu] loveliness and vigour, but her spirit 
was not unchano^ed. The stronoj besettino: sin that 
had clouded her brighter qualities,— her pride '<the 



THE SISTERS. 385 

sin by which the angels fell," was now subdued. 
She had learned, and bitter was the lesson, the vile- 
ness and the weakness of her own heart, and the 
halo of innocent beauty which is ever imparted to 
those who possess truly Christian humility, shed 
added grace around her natural loveliness. 

Two, three years passed on, and the sisters had 
attained that momentous period of woman's life 
when friends begin to inquire — do you think they 
will ever marry?" — implying thereby that the 
"horrors of old maidenhood" are impending over 
them. It was indeed a mystery to those who knew 
not the truth, why two rich, beautiful, and accom- 
plished women should remain single, when so many 
opportunities offered for their prosperous " establish- 
ment." A noble-hearted, devoted admirer, Mr. 
Enfield, a distinguished lawyer, had long loved 
Adelaide, and in spite of discouragement or in- 
difference pressed his suit with the fostering appro- 
bation of her parents, but in vain. Finding his 
affection hopeless, he plunged more deeply into the 
turmoil of business to deaden the acuteness of his 

disappointment. In the autumn of 1836, Mr. Gordon 
33 



3S6 THE SISTERS. 

found that commercial matters required his presence 
in New Orleans, and as he would be compelled to 
remain some months, he wished for a companion. 
Adelaide was selected by her father, Clara having 
expressed her perfect satisfaction and indeed pre- 
ference for remaining at home with her mother. 
They departed. To Adelaide's intelligent mind 
the journey through the southern states could not 
fail to prove an unequalled gratification. In New 
Orleans they met Mr. and Mrs. Stanley. There 
was a look of care and pain upon the brow of 
George, that ill accorded with the apparent happi- 
ness and wealthy comfort of his household, to which 
the presence of a sprightly infant was at once an 
addition and a charm. It was a source of heartfelt 
thankfulness to Adelaide to behold their domestic 
peace, and to feel that by the blessing of God she 
could contemplate it without envy or repining. 

The winter and opening spring passed in friendly 
intercourse, and Adelaide insensibly grew more and 
more attached to Mrs. Stanley. A lonely orphan, 
without any surviving kindred, reared in compara- 
tive seclusion, married to the first love of her inno- 



THE SISTERS. 387 

cent heart before the sun had risen on her eighteenth 
summer, there was an infantine simpHcity, a clinging 
timidity in her character which made her particularly 
fascinating ; and when Adelaide remembered how 
she had formerly loathed her very presence, she 
strove to make amends for her secret injustice. 

The rich beauty of a southern spring was bursting 
into early summer, and his business having drawn 
to a close, Mr. Gordon was anxious to return home 
by way of the Mississippi: Mr. and Mrs. Stanley 
were to accompany him and his daughter. Prepara- 
tions were made for their departure, and the after- 
noon of Saturday the sixth of May, was the time 
appointed. On Friday evening Mr. Gordon having 
left home to bid farewell to a few friends, Adelaide 
received a note from Mrs. Stanley, requesting her 
company that evening, as George was compelled 
to be absent, and she was somewhat indisposed. 
Adelaide wiUingly complied. Mrs. Stanley, whose 
dehcate and nervous temperament made her health 
a constant source of anxiety to her friends, was that 
evening peculiarly desponding, and it required all 
Adelaide's assiduous cheerfulness to raise her droop- 



388 THE SISTERS. 

ing spirits. Hour after hour wore away in the calm 
delight of an intimate intercourse between two 
intelligent, refined and affectionate women, — than 
which, w^hat enjoyment can be greater.'^ Insensibly 
they had dropped more common place and general 
subjects, and had discoursed on their peculiar views 
and feelings, and on matters of personal interest. 
Each had then sunk into a momentary re very, which 
was interrupted by Mrs. Stanley's exclaiming : 
<' How deeply I feel the advice dear George has 
often given me, to guard against forming hasty 
judgments from a first impression. How much I 
have lost, my dear Adelaide, by not seeking your 
intimate acquaintance when we were in New York ; 
I felt partial to your sister, and of course could not 
fail to hear your praises on every side, and yet I 
shrunk from you, and why ? You will never guess 
it ; it was such a foolish, extravagant idea : I was 
absolutely jealous of you." It was well the shades 
of evening obscured the apartment, or the sudden 
ghastly paleness that overspread Adelaide's face 
must have been observed by her companion. "It 
was only," continued Mrs. Stanley, " a heedless 



THE SISTERS. 389 

remark made by an acquaintance which caused my 
uneasiness : she casually said that George had 
once paid you particular attention. This trifle was 
enough to rouse my nervous temper. You cannot 
conceive what a life I led, how eagerly I watched 
you whenever we met, how my jealous eyes followed 
George while in your presence ; it was said, you 
may remember, that the keenness of the northern 
winter was too much for my frame, — but no ! the 
keenness of jealousy was the true cause. My dear 
Adelaide, you must not despise me for my weak- 
ness, or hate me for so wronging you. Perhaps I 
am inconsiderate in acknowledging my folly now, 
but I have scarcely any friends but you and Clara 
and dear George, and it seems a relief to me to talk 
thus confidentially. You forgive me, Adelaide, do 
you not ?" 

cc Forgive you," murmured Adelaide, "as far 
as regards your — your unfounded fear of me. Yes — 
but for your injustice to yourself you do not deserve 
to be forgiven. Why had you not sufficient confi- 
dence in Mr. Stanley's regard, in your own sweet 

character and love, to conquer such sickly fancies?" 
33* 



390 THE SISTERS. 

" Ah ! there it was ; I felt that George did not 
love me, — at least not as I loved him. I am his wife 
now," she added, as a faint blush momentarily 
overspread her cheeks, " and therefore I may con- 
fess how^ fondly, how intensely I have always loved 
him. Dear George ! wicked indeed would be my 
heart did it harbour one thought of reproach or 
complaint against him; but have you not often 
observed that persons not gifted on ordinary occa- 
sions with acute penetration, become profound and 
just analyzers of character where their feelings are 
concerned ? So it was with me. From the first hour 
I knew what the word love meant, I had been taught 
by my guardian, his father, that George w^as to be my 
husband, I had studied his disposition, the peculiar 
bent of his mind so closely, that I felt convinced a 
man of his enthusiastic temperament, whos^ friend- 
ships were equal in ardour to the love of most men, 
must be capable of deeper, more rapturous affection 
than he displayed even in the days of our courtship. 
There were times too when I observed a cloud of 
depression upon his spirits which my society could 
not disperse ; and once or twice I was tempted to 



THE SISTERS. 391 

act the heroine, and say that if it were irksome to 
him I would release him from his engagement. 
But I was not formed for a heroine : had I resigned 
him, I must have resigned life too. And I should 
have been justly punished, for now I am assured it 
was the gloom of his father's recent death that preyed 
upon his mind. In my marriage I may truly say with 
the poet : « Woman ne'er was blessed since the first 
pair met as I have been !' So ends the confession 
of Bertha Stanley, related by herself," she added 
with a gay laugh, " and glad are you, no doubt, 
that the wearisome tale is over. But you know human 
nature loves egotism, and will excuse me, will you 
not?" and caressingly she wound her arm around 
Adelaide's neck. ««What! sobbing! is it possible! 
and can you, do you feel such kind compassion for 
my weakness? I shall indeed bless this evening, 
since it has given me this proof of your regard." 
The entrance of Mr. Gordon and George prevented 
a reply or more embarrassing pause. Lights were 
brought in, and the gentlemen proceeded to relate 
the disappointment they had received. George w^as 
obliged to w^ait the arrival of a letter of some impor- 



392 THE SISTERS. 

tance before he could leave the city, and the north- 
ern mail would not be due until the next evening 
at eight. «'Can we not postpone our departure, my 
dear father?" said Adelaide. «' Impossible, my 
love, as my arrangements now stand, we have no 
alternative but to look forward to our safe and 
speedy meeting in Louisville." 

The friends soon after separated for the night, and 
on the ensuing afternoon visited the floating palace 
which for a week was to be the home of Mr. Gor- 
don and his daughter. Bright were the wishes, 
affectionate the adieus that passed between them 
and the majestic "Ambassador"* wended her way 
up the dark waters of the father of Rivers. 



* One of the first class Mississippi steamboats, then commanded 
by Captain James, which left JN"ew Orleans for Louisville on 
Saturday, May 6th, 1837. 



THE SISTERS. 393 



CHAPTER VI. 

What though no fun'ral pomp, no borrowed tear, 

Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell, — 

No weeping friends attend your sable bier 

Who sadly hsten to the passing bell, — * * # 

Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil 
Relieve your scene and sigh with grief sincere, 
x\nd soft compassion, at your tragic tale. 
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear. 

Falconeh. 

On the same evening the expected letter arrived, 
and finding that a steamboat was to depart early on 
the following morning, Mr. and Mrs. Stanley 
embraced the opportunity in order that they might 
sooner overtake their friends. They were already 
acquainted with many of the passengers, and they 
looked forward to an agreeable journey. On Sun- 
day evening, Mr. Stanley, who, from the lateness 
of his application was unable to procure an entire 
state-room for his family, and was thus separated 
from them, bade his wife and child good night, 
and taking the arm of a friend, strolled up and 



394 THE SISTERS. 

down the hurricane-deck. The moon shone brightly 
and coldly on the misty waters, — the black cloud of 
smoke spotted with its myriads of ruby sparks, "like 
a wounded snake, dragged its slow length along" 
through the << darkly blue" sky, — the low, wooded 
banks on either side, cast their lengthened shadows 
in the waters, while here and there a light beaming 
from a solitary cabin on the shore, only threw 
the surrounding objects into deeper shade. No 
sound disturbed the quiet of the hour but the dash- 
ing of the wheels and the hoarse panting of the 
steam. The time wore on, and George, bidding 
his friend Mr. Elliot good night, retired to rest. 
The latter still continued his walk, and disinclined 
to sleep, wandered dow^n to the third and lowest 
deck, to observe the labours of the firemen. As 
he passed the pile of fuel placed near the boilers 
for immediate use, he thought there was danger in 
its proximity to the fire, especially as the sparks 
were falling rapidly upon the wood. Calling to 
one of the men, he attracted his attention to the 
circumstance, but the man with an Oath bade him 
"mind his own business," and sulkily passed on. 



THE SISTERS. 395 

Mr. Elliot for a time remained near the spot, but 
supposing that those employed about the engine 
must be better judges than himself, he looked at 
his watch, and finding it was long after twelve 
o'clock, he too retired to rest. Scarcely were his 
eyes fairly closed, however, when he was awaked 
by a bustle around him and the awful cry — " the 
vessel is on fire." Hastily he sprang up, and dress- 
ing himself, ran to the small boat which was hang- 
ing at the stern, he leaped in ; several others fol- 
lowed and one in his eagerness to escape, cut the 
rope connecting the steamer to the bow of the 
yawl, which immediately fell perpendicularly, and 
all on board were precipitated into the water. Mr. 
Elliot alone rose again, and floating down some 
distance, was rescued by a boat's crew who were 
approaching. Meanwhile the devastating element 
spread with awful rapidity through the steamer. 
The heroic pilot, still motionless at his post, con- 
tinued his earnest but unavailing efforts to direct 
the vessel to the shore, and in the performance of 
his duty died. For miles round might be heard the 
agonizing shrieks of the poor wretches calling in vain 



396 



THE SISTERS. 



for help, — the destructive light showed every object 
with the vividness of day. Some clung convul- 
sively to the burning sides of the boat, while others 
madly plunged into the stream, there meeting a 
more sudden and less horrible death. One noble 
youth, with the impulse of our nature's law, self- 
preservation, had reached the hurricane deck in 
safety, when the thought of his dear and loving 
sister left to perish, rushed across his mind. Eagerly 
he threaded his way back to the cabin amidst the 
crowds and confusion that obstructed his path, and 
clasping his sister to his heart, both sunk into the 
flames together. There at one end of the vessel 
a mother, leading her little son, while the attendant 
stood by bearing another infant, — called loudly for 
her husband ; while the boy clasping his tiny arms 
around her, tearfully besought her to take him away, 
crying " the fire is burning me, it is so hot, so hot !" 
Her husband heard the cry and joined them. «' Col- 
lect yourselves," said he, — "save God, our only 
hope now is in presence of mind." The timid and 
dehcate mother grasped her son in her arms, whose 
weight at another time would almost have over- 



THE SISTERS. 397 

powered her ; seizing a plank, her husband leaped 

overboard and called on her to follow ; she did so, 

and catching her as she rose with her burthen, he 

placed their precious charge astride upon the plank 

to which they clung, while he prepared to receive 

his infant and her nurse. Here a violent explosion 

for a moment involved all in smoke, and as the 

mist dispersed, the horror stricken parents beheld 

the nurse in all the frantic energy of panic fear, grasp 

their infant and madly plunge headlong into the fire. 

For a time their efforts were paralyzed by the shock, 

but the incessant appeals of their unconscious 

boy aroused them. For two hours they drifted 

down the river ere they could reach the shore. 

Nature bore them up until that moment, when, in 

the transition to perfect safety they could but gasp 

forth their thanks to Providence, and then sank 

exhausted at the feet of those w^ho came, to their 

assistance. Meanwhile, Mrs. Stanley, hearing the 

cries of her domestics, who ran to and fro helpless 

and terrified as the conflagration first burst forth, 

sprung from the bed, and holding her babe to her 

bosom, rushed out of the cabin to seek her husband, 
34 



398 THE SISTERS. 

wildly shrieking forth his name ; she heard his voice 
in answer : she beheld him striding through the mass 
of fire to reach her ; the glaring light revealed his 
features convulsed with anxiety for his dear wife and 
child, but as he came to the verge of the blazing 
gulf that separated them, his footing gave way and 
before her eyes he fell into the flames. Scarcely 
concious of the action, Bertha leaped into the water 
with her babe. Providentially a plank was floating 
near, she seized it with one hand, and the current 
carried heron towards a steamer that was approach- 
ing to ofler succor. Oh joy! they see her with her 
infant treasure ! They advance with slackened 
pace lest the commotion of the water should destroy 
those they wish to save ; with eager care some 
prepare to send out the boat, while others at the 
same time fling forth a rope ; she sees it, collects 
her almost exhausted strength, (and thanking heaven 
for the aid) reaches forth her arm to grasp it ; twice 
she makes the effort, but in vain. With a mother's 
love, strongest even in death, she murmurs forth a 
prayer and benediction on her child, while both 
sink to rise no more ! 



THE SISTERS. 399 

Another explosion now burst forth, the powder 
on board the vessel had ignited, and ere the morn- 
ing's dawn, the scattered fragments of the ill fated 
Ben Sherrod, strewed the river in all directions!* 



CHAPTER VII. 

The office of a wife includes the exertion of a friend. There 
are situations where it will not be enough to love, cherish, and 
obey : she must teach her husband to be at peace with himself, 
to be reconciled to the world, to resist misfortune, to conquer 
adversity ! Mackenzie. 

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick, but when the desire 
Cometh, it is a tree of life. 

In the autumn of 1838, bright were the prepara- 
tions in Mr. Gordon's happy family for the marriage 
of Adelaide. The discipline of her heart in the 
erring passion she had once cherished had been of 
infinite service to her character. The unconscious 

* The events related in this chapter are minutely true in 
every particular : I received the account from one of the chief 
actors in the heart-rending scene. 



400 THE SISTERS. 

narration of Mrs. Stanley on the last evening they 
had passed together, had shewn her the happiness 
she might have poisoned, the pure devotion of the 
heart she might have broken ; while the awful and 
sudden event that afterw^ards occurred had been a 
painful warning. Softened in manner, subdued in 
temper, she was now prepared to be a loving com- 
panion, a faithful wife to Mr. Enfield, who had on 
her return, renewed his suit and at length been 
accepted. This was the evening previous to their 
marriage, and in their family circle all seemed joy- 
ous. Encouraged by the approving smiles of her 
he loved, Mr. Enfield had been giving life-like 
sketches of his adventures in the far w^est, whither 
he had for a time exiled himself after Adelaide's 
rejection of him. He continued, << One of the 
most delightful acquaintances I ever made was in 
the infant state of Michigan. A small village, 
settled but a short time previous, w^s rapidly, like 
a young Hercules, destroying opposition and rising 
to celebrity. The man whom all regard as a pre- 
siding genius, is a native of New York, and has 
scarcely reached manhood's prime. He is the pre- 



THE SISTERS. 401 

eminent lawyer and magistrate of their new "town;" 
he resides on his extensive farm like a patriarch, 
save that no wife shares his solitude. His own 
hands had cut down the first tree on his now well 
cleared and cultivated domains, round which those 
jewels of earth's crown, " flowers of all hues," blos- 
som brightly to reward his fostering care ; he has 
organized the habits of the settlers, he has legislated 
in the new colony ; the well regulated school-house 
boasts him for its founder, the traveller blesses his 
hospitality ; w^ealth, respect, and an'approving con- 
science, mark his days with brightness. He seems 
to live but to do good, and amidst all the wilder 
and sterner virtues, the refinements of intellectual 
and educated life are not forgotten." 

" Surely, Mr. Enfield," exclaimed Adelaide, 
" you are painting a hero of romance." 

" No, truly ; all I say is simple fact, and trust 

me, in the vast regions of our western land, his 

character will find more than one parallel. All that 

is wanting to complete the picture is a woman's 

presence. How such a man can live without loving 

is to me a mystery, and now,"^^ he added, gently 
34* 



402 THE SISTERS. 

pressing Adelaide's hand as he spoke, " I feel that 
amid all his dignity and comfort there is one bles- 
sing in his loneliness without which he cannot be 
happy." 

"You say then," rejoined Mr. Gordon, "that 
he is from New York. Do you not remember his 



name 



?" 



« I never can forget it : Wilmot, Henry Wilmot." 
"Indeed! Harry Wilmot! He was as dear to 
me as my own son. Bless the boy ! I am glad to 
hear of his success; Clara, my child, where are 
you going .^" he inquired, as her receding form 
disappeared through the closing door. " Oh, some 
little preparation for to-morrow, I suppose." 

" And that remark unwillingly reminds me that 
I must take my leave," replied Mr. Enfield as he 
rose to bid adieu. Adelaide accompanied him to 
the door, and a few moments passed in the mur- 
muring of those fond words and gentle wishes that 
ever new though still repeated, gush with harmoni- 
ous flow from the lips of affianced lovers. With a 
smile and blush yet lingering on her face, Adelaide 
sought her sister who was weeping bitterly in her 



THE SISTERS. 403 

own apartment. " Forgive me, Clara," said she, 
<« that in my own happiness, I for a moment 
neglected your sorrow." 

«« Oh, Adelaide, you talked of my fortitude, 
where is it now ? God grant me strength to bear 
this blow! I did not expect it, but it is too plain : 
Harry has forgotten me, else what now prevents 
him from coming to claim me ?" 

" Hope yet, dearest Clara ; I cannot but believe 
that you are mistaken." 

«< No, no, it is but too true ; the turmoil, the 
ambition, the pride and enterprise of his present 
career have effaced my image from his memory. 
Do not offer consolation, sister; leave me for a 
while. Hereafter I will reason^ — now I can only 
feel. Oh merciful Father, if indeed the blessed 
hope that I have cherished for long years is to be 
crushed, teach me to bear the shock, and in the 
discharge of friendship's ties and duties, let Thy 
bounty. Thy protection, and Thy love, satisfy all 
my earthly cravings."- 
4fe * * * ^ * * 

Morning dawned beautifully cloudless as the 



404 THE SISTERS. 

prospects of the bride. As the company were 
assembled on their return from church, a knock 
was heard at the door, and an inquiry made for 
Miss Gordon. The only lady now bearing that 
appellation tripped unconcernedly down stairs, and 
on entering the dining-room where she learned a 
stranger waited for her, the exclamation, «< Clara ! 
dearest Clara !" met her ear. A cry of joy burst 
from her lips — reserve, dignity, injured pride, were 
all forgotten in the impulse of the moment, and she 
rushed into the arms that were outstretched to 
receive her. 

The mystery was easily explained. As soon as 
Henry Wilmot had accomplished Mr. Gordon's 
requisition and acquired wealth, he hourly toiled to 
make his home fit for the reception of his bride. 
When this was done he wrote to both her parents 
and herself announcing his intentions and his hopes. 
This letter had miscarried as it should seem, and 
bestowing a passing epithet, not very complimentary, 
upon mails, post-offices, and all connected therewith, 
Harry proceeded to relate that he had arrived in 
New York the night previous, and having heard of 



THE SISTERS. 405 

the intended wedding and ascertained it was not 
Clara'^s, hastened to the house. 

"And now, dearest Clara, may I claim my 
reward ? Will you leave the city and its luxuries 
for a colony in the wilderness ? I have nothing to 
offer in exchange for all these comforts and the dear 
society of relatives and friends, but a settler's rude 
unfinished home, and the love of an honest and 
adoring heart." 

" I could reproach you for the doubt were I not 
so happy. Do you, Harry, deem it necessary to 
ask the question? I can answer in the words of 
Ruth : « whither thou goest, I will go, where thou 
lodgest, Twill lodge, thy people shall be my people,' 
and — Oh blessing that I can say so ; « thy God 
shall be my God.' " 



406 THE SISTERS. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

Our actions are our heralds, and they fix, 
Beyond the date of tombs or epitaphs, 
Renown or infamy. 



TOBIX. 



Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 

And fetters sure and fast. 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

In thy abysses hide, 
Beauty and excellence unknown — to thee, 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea. 

Labours of good to man, 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, — 

Love, that midst grief began 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

BRrA]!fT. 

No great effort of imagination is required to 
divine the conclusion of their history. Adelaide's 
marriage, which allowed her still to remain with her 
parents, was soon followed by that of Clara, who, 
with her husband, was shortly to depart. Until 
that time the family were inseparable, and the 
hours passed swiftly in solicitude on the one hand 



THE SISTERS. 407 

as to the strange mode of life and journey in pros- 
pect, and on Harry's part in eager inquiries after 
old acquaintances and friends. Among others he 
had asked all particulars relative to George Stanley, 
and on being informed of his melancholy fate, he 
remarked : << I knew but little of him here as you 
are aware : but I have felt an unfailing esteem and 
respect for his character from a circumstance to 
which I was accidentally a party." Every one 
anxiously begged to hear it related, and Harry 
continued. " While he lived, nothing would have 
induced me to reveal it, and thereby perhaps annul 
the effect of the noble sacrifice he made ; now 
however I cannot hesitate to narrate it to you in 
confidence. Sometime after I left New York and 
bent my way to Michigan, I was introduced to the 
elder Mr. Stanley, who was engaged in the survey 
of some lands he had purchased there, but I became 
only slightly acquainted with him. Business called 
me still further into the interior, and on my return 
to the inn, where he was also staying, I found 
that he was seriously ill, that his son had been sent 
for, and was then with him. Not wishing to 



408 THE SISTERS. 

intrude, I satisfied myself by making inquiries con- 
cerning him, and by an offer of my services in any 
way that might be needed, and taking a traveller's 
meal, hastened to recruit my strength by a night's 
rest after my weary journey on horseback. As is 
often the case in intense fatigue, though exceedingly 
tired, I was unable to sleep, and about midnight I 
became aware of a slight bustle in the adjoining 
apartment. The inn was a large log hut; it boasted 
of several rooms however, which were formed by 
slight and rudely constructed partitions barely 
answering the purpose of a screen. Every word 
could be distinctly heard through them, and thus I. 
became the involuntary auditor of their conversa- 
tion, of which the entire purport and many of the 
actual expressions are firmly impressed upon my 
memory. It appeared that Mr. Stanley had been 
asleep, and on awakening called for his son, who 
was at his bedside. '« Now that we are alone, 
George," said he, «'I wish to speak to you on 
matters of the utmost importance. It is for the 
sake of this interview more than all the rest that I 
required your presence before my death. George, 



I 



THE SISTERS. 409 

my son, I have one desire, one prayer to you, that 
you will marry Bertha Delacroix.'' 

<« Great Heaven ! Marry Bertha ! Father, it is 
impossible." 

"George, beware ere you decide so hastily, I do 
not command — I do not threaten ; but I entreat with 
my dying breath, as you would see me leave the 
world in peace." 

"Be calm, my dear father! Think me notunfilial 
or ungrateful. But this sudden proposal has startled 
me I confess. My feelings are already engaged — 
indeed my honour is already pledged. It is true 
I have not directly offered myself, but I am not the 
less bound. With your nice sense of justice, you 
need not be told, my dear sir, that there are many 
points, far short of an actual declaration, on which 
to hesitate or retract, would be unworthy the cha- 
racter of a man of integrity and rectitude. Such 
is'now my situation, — and to marry another, — even 
were I to consent so to sacrifice my own affections, 
would entail unhappiness as well as mortification 
and perhaps scandal upon the woman I love." 

" This argument is just, my son, but it must not 
35 



410 THE SISTERS. 

avail here, I know your strength of mind. The 
bride I offer is, as you well know, lovely, young, 
intelligent, and amiable. She has been sought after 
by numerous suitors, but I have led her innocent 
heart to contemplate the prospect of a union with 
you. She loves you with all the fervour of a first 
affection. She cannot fail to make you happy. 
Oh George, consent, I beseech you !" 

" You call upon me so earnestly to make this 
sacrifice, my dear father, that I feel there must be 
some powerful undivulged reason for your vehe- 
mence. I have an unquestionable right on this point 
to demand your confidence." 

A deep groan burst from his father's lips as he 
ejaculated : " Yes, yes : you are right, listen to me, 
and if possible do not despise me ! You know I am 
reputed to be immensely rich — the wealth is not 
mine — it is Bertha's. Her father left me her sole 
guardian, as you knovr — she was then a child. At 
that time I had for years indulged a passion for 
gambling, which was gradually destroying my for- 
tune. The more unpromising my position became, 
the more desperate I grew: my infatuation in- 



THE SISTERS. 411 

creased, and at last I lost everything. The ruin of 
my reputation must have been the consequence of 
a discovery of the truth, and to be pointed at as 
the beggared gamester was an idea that almost 
drove me mad. More than once I contemplated 
suicide : yes, groan as you will, George, it is too 
true. I was deterred from that crime, not, (I blush 
to own it,) by the fear of punishment hereafter, but 
by the certainty of the stigma which would be 
entailed by an investigation of the causes of such 
an act. At this moment the evil spirit within me 
recalled the thought of Bertha's fortune. The 
documents were all in my possession — you were 
then at college — I have not strength to tell or to 
describe details — the struggle was long and violent, 
but at last I yielded. The insertion of one word, 
the transposition of others sufficed — the deed was 
accomplished — my reputation unstained; I was 
still a rich man. I entered into commerce : men 
wondered at the mad speculations I embarked in, 
which as it happened brought me tenfold profit. 
They knew not that I flew to every species of 
excitement to deaden the tortures of remorse. One 



412 THE SISTERS. 

only hope brought me consolation : that you would 
marry Bertha, and thus, unsuspected by the world, 
secure to her the fortune of which I had robbed 
her." " Restore it all to her, my father. Let 
your last act be one of justice and restitution. I 
am young, and thanks be to your care, well edu- 
cated. Providence has given me health, ability, 
and strength. I will make a name and fortune for 
myself." 

" It cannot be. What reason can I give for 
enriching her, and impoverishing you, that will not 
excite suspicion or remark ? I could not rest, even 
in my grave, if my secret were discovered. Not 
only to have my name blasted as the forger, the 
thief, but as the accursed, the man who wronged 
the orphan V With a voice almost inarticulate 
with emotion, George interrupted him : " My dear 
father, be composed, urge me no further, it is need- 
less. I will marry Bertha Delacroix, and as far as 
in me lies do all to make her happy." 

" Bless you, my son ! the blessing, the love, the 
gratitude of your unworthy father be with you for- 



THE SISTERS. 413 

Almost at this moment I heard the physician 
enter the apartment. The next morning I procured 
a more distant room, and a few days after, Mr. 
Stanley died. Within a year I learned that George 
had fulfilled his promise and married Bertha Dela- 
croix." 

" Adelaide," said Clara, before they separated for 
the night, " I rejoice that we are at last enabled, 
though tardily, to do justice to George Stanley; 
and not the least noble part of his character was 
the silent forbearance with which he bore the odium 
of trifling with your affections, never seeking to 
vindicate himself or to make his wife unhappy by 
a suspicion of the facts. It seems to me that his 
life, as well as ours, tends to prove a consoling 
truth : that when we lay upon the altar of duty or 
religion the offering of our heart's dearest affections, 
the approval of our conscience and the happiness 
derived from the fulfilment of our allotted task, 
form the sweet reward by which Providence 
benignly teaches that the offering is accepted. 



35* 



414 THE SISTERS. 

After repeated comments upon the story, Anna, who had the 
happy faculty of making every one do as she pleased, and of 
pleasing every one by so doing, called upon Jane for her contri- 
bution. " I have it here," said Jane, drawing forth her roll of 
paper. " But my time has been so much occupied, that my nar- 
rative is not embellished by poetical quotations, such as adorn 
Anna's and Emma's story." 

" Of course," cried Aima, with playful sarcasm, " brides elect 
are always very important and very insolent individuals, and 
their excuses are admissible. Pray begin, my dear Jane. Order, 
ladies, order !" 

Jane then read the following narrative. 



I 



THE MAEEIAGE VOW. 

A TALE OF ELOEIDA, 



PART I. 



On a bright afternoon in May 1835, two young 
persons were seated side by side in a drawing room 
in Charleston, South Carolina. They were both 
silent, both sad ; but the face of one wore a look 
of manly hopefulness as his eyes rested upon the 
dejected girl beside him. Well might they be sad, 
for they were betrothed lovers on the eve of sepa- 
ration. He was a Heutenant in the army. The 
Seminole war had begun, — a war, which being 
confined to a distant part of our territory, was 
looked upon almost as a foreign conflict by the 
northern states. It was a protracted war with a 
savage foe, arising out of the exaction of treaties 
supposed to be the acts of the Indian nation, but 
in reality only sanctioned by a few chiefs. Other 



416 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

causes too contributed to engender and foster bitter 
blood : the erroneous policy of Indian agents — the 
frauds of sub-agents and petty dealers — and the 
lavish introduction of the Indian's curse — the fire- 
water. The chiefs refused to ratify the treaties, 
and the government sought to compel their fulfil- 
ment : the savages then commenced warfare accord- 
ing to their own savage rule, by burning, destroy- 
ing, pillaging, scalping, and in cold blood slaying 
the innocent, as though the " pale face" were in 
itself a cause for hatred. The war is scarcely 
remembered now except for its cost of blood and 
treasure ; and few know or reflect upon the priva- 
tions, the wreck of health from fatigue, exposure, 
and hardship, incurred by the army in opposing a 
foe whose mode of warfare deprived their conquer- 
ors of the glory resulting from open field and fair 
fight: a glory whose light so dazzles the soldier 
that he sees not the red hue of the blood in which 
it is bathed. Major Dade, to whose command 
Lieutenant Ferrers was attached, had just issued 
orders for departure into Florida: and Catharine, 
the betrothed of Ferrers, was to remain with her 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 417 

surviving and invalid parent, Mr. Allston, a south- 
ern nierchant, who in a few months expected an 
unavoidable summons to Europe. Thus, while 
affection, as well as duty, made his daughter 
promptly prepare to attend him, it was not the less 
painful to have the ocean added to the time, dis- 
tance, and danger, which were about to divide her 
from her love. 

'« Cheer up, Catharine," said Ferrers, as he drew 
his arm more closely round her. " We must hope 
for the best." 

" Oh, James," repHed Catharine, <' I am not so 
weak as to give way to forebodings if ours were an 
ordinary separation. But the time of our meeting 
is so distant and uncertain — and above all the ser- 
vice upon which you are going — the daily unseen 
peril, the treachery, the ambush, of which I have 
read so often without thinking it would be more to 
me than a dream or a story of the past — all this is 
so terrible, James, that my fortitude has entirely 
fled." 

More than once had Ferrers affectionately endea- 
voured to interrupt her, and he now continued in a 



418 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

tone of assumed cheerfulness, to name the time 
when she might expect to hear from him. <' I have 
said good-bye to your father and to Cummings, 
who will I know watch over you Hke a brother. 
Yet indeed I should be fearful of leaving you to his 
guardianship, did I not know his mind is so devoted 
to mercantile pursuits that he leaves love entirely to 
idlers like myself." 

The few moments yet left to them, soon passed 
away. With fervent blessings, loving, tearful 
words, and fond farewell caresses, they bade each 
adieu, looking forward to the period, when time 
should have deepened and peril sanctified Love, 
and when they should meet again with affection 
warmed and inspirited by Hope and Joy. So often 
do friends and lovers part, but how rarely do they 
thus meet again. 

Months passed, and every available chance was 
seized by Ferrers for communicating with his pro- 
mised wife. The daily rumours from the army, 
from whatever source obtained, were kindly brought 
to Catharine by Frank Cummings, her cousin, and 
for years her associate. Frank had been received 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 419 

into Mr. Allston's most intimate confidence, and 
now that the invalid was wholly unequal to the 
fatigues of business, Frank was in truth his right 
hand. Cummings also sympathized with Catharine 
in all her anxieties— assisted her in her devoted 
attentions to her father, and in protection and kind- 
ness was indeed a brother. Whenever an opportu- 
nity afforded for the safe conveyance of letters to 
Ferrers, Frank's quiet, but significant inquiry 
" Catharine, have you any letters to send to day ?'' 
was blushingly, but promptly answered by her 
placing them in his hands : and he was equally 
considerate in procuring and bringing to her Fer- 
rers' replies at the earliest moment. At length the 
month of November arrived — the period fixed for 
Mr. Allston's departure : and it was supposed that 
the voyage would be beneficial to him. At his 
urgent request Cummings was to accompany him 
and his daughter ; and every comfort was arranged 
for the invalid on board one of his own commo- 
dious vessels. The ship sailed bearing thence 
Catharine and her father, and Frank. The day 
before her departure, Catharine received a hasty 



420 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

scrawl from Ferrers — dated at the camp, north of 
the Ouithlacoochie River, announcing their expected 
march. 

The voyage was agreeable and uneventful, but 
the first vessel that arrived from home after they 
had reached Havre, brought disastrous news. 
Major Dade with his detachment had proceeded half 
way from Tampa Bay to Fort King, when on the 
28th of December; they had advanced to the bor- 
ders of a cane-brake ; the eyes of the little band 
wandered around in search of some Indian, (lying 
as w^as often the case, like a log upon the ground, 
painted and covered with green boughs,) the first 
knowledge of whose proximity was often the sharp 
click of the death- dealing rifle that stretched the 
sentinel upon the earth : but no sound broke the 
silence. After having halted there awhile, the 
order to march was given : in an instant a volley 
from an unseen foe laid the front rank in the dust : 
among them was Major Dade. Bravely, desper-^ 
ately, did that little band defend themselves against 
their ambushed foes. One after another the officers 
were shot down: Ferrers was among the first. 



THE MARRIAGE VOW, 421 

Lieutenant Henderson, after one arm had been 
broken, rested his gun upon the stump, and so 
loaded and fired, until another shot deprived him 
of life. " We must sell our lives dearly — come on 
boys!" was the cry of Lieutenant Bassinger, the 
only officer left alive to lead the men against the 
now apparent foe. Out of one hundred and twelve 
men, but two returned to tell the tale. On the 
ensuing day, the troops who visited the spot beheld 
the mangled remains ; for after the Indians had 
scalped the dead, atrocious mutilation of the bodies 
was the work of the negroes in attendance upon 
the savage tribes. 

Passionately, sincerely, did Catharine mourn, 
struggling in vain to conceal from her father the 
full extent of her suffering which was but too appa- 
rent in her face and form. JYow Frank Cummings 
was indeed a brother ; and as soon as she was able 
to refer to the past, she asked of him all the details 
of that dreadful day. He gave them delicately 
and kindly, stripped of their most harrowing 
adjuncts. This much was, alas ! too true. One 

of the men who escaped saw Ferrers fall at the 
36 



422 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

first fire, although when the slain were interred, the 
bodies w^ere not all distinctly recognized. Poor 
Catharine's widowed heart caught eagerly at the 
meager hope this news afforded ; but with consi- 
derate care, Frank checked its rise. For in the 
subsequent arrivals from America no further tidings 
of him came ; the war still continued, and volun- 
teers were daily departing from the Southern States' 
to protect the Floridians from Indian incursions. 
In the newspapers ^ated several weeks after the 
event, Catharine read repeatedly the sad comments 
on the loss of all the officers ; and Frank told her 
that many letters he received alluded feehngly to 
poor Ferrers' fate. Still Catharine hoped on : and 
trusted that aline from Ferrers himself, might, by 
some improbable but blessed chance, arrive like an 
angel to relieve her heart. 

None such came ; although Frank still forwarded 
her letters, — still brought her all replies, and all 
tidings from America that could interest her. Mr. 
Allston grew daily worse, and as Catharine rarely 
left him, her correspondence with friends at home 
was necessarily limited, while a tempestuous spring 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 423 

which strewed the coast with wrecks, satisfactorily 
accounted for the non-arrival of letters from many 
of her home companions. 

So passed six months. Change of air and scene 
were tried (as usual) for the invalid ; but with the 
summer, he too faded fast. One afternoon Mr. 
Allston had been wheeled from his chamber to the 
adjoining room, and asked Catharine if she felt 
able to sing and play to him once again. She 
instantly complied. Seating herself at the piano, 
her thoughts unconsciously reverted to a few quaint 
lines, which Ferrers had adapted to an appropriate 
German strain, and which had been formerly their 
mutual favourite. 



Yes, I will love ! Though love may end in tears, 
And trace my weary path through life in sorrow, 
Though memory's regrets may last for years, 
And not a single ray from joy may borrow, 
Yet will I love ! 

Love bids the mind look inward — ceaseless strive, 
Of pure affection still to prove deserving : 
If Hope be dead, Eemembrance will survive. 
From each temptation like a shield preserving : 
Therefore I'll love ! 



424 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

True love inspires unto noble deeds, 
True love the charities of life doth cherish ; 
Softens the sternest heart, and daily feeds 
Each humblest sympathy that else would perish .' 
Then bid me love ! 

For love doth shed its blessings all around 
To farthest sti'angers : like the lavish flovs^ers, 
Which, while they beauteously bedeck the ground. 
Perfume the breezes, and embrace the showers : 
Therefore I'll love! 

Love's glance doth bless, though quickly fades its smile 
The babe, whose life one little day doth measure, 
Deserteth thus the angels' throng awhile. 
To give on earth a brief, but priceless pleasure : 
Then let me love ! 

So, when I reach the autumn of life's year, 
The rustling leaves, and wind around me sighing, 
Will murmur sweetest comfort to mine ear, — 
" Love outlasts Life," and I can answer, dying, — 
" Yes, I have loved !" 



1 



Frank Cummings was ascending the stairs as 
Catharine commenced, and he lingered outside the 
door until she had concluded. As he listened his 
brow contracted, and his cheek grew pale, but he 
drew himself up more firmly, and a strange cold 
smile passed over his face as the last sounds died 
upon his ear. He entered the room gravely, and 
informed Mr. Allston that the gentlemen whom he 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 425 

wished to see were waiting below. Mr. Allston 
desired thej might be shewn up, and turning to 
Catharine, said : " They are my solicitor and 
friends, Catharine, who have come to witness the 
signing of an important document — my will.'' 
Catharine burst into tears and flung her arms 
around her father's neck. In youth and health, the 
duty of making a will is to all reflecting minds an 
act of solemnity. More than almost any other 
isolated action of our lives, it awakens our con- 
sciousness of free agency. It enables us to be- 
queath comfort to another generation, — it affords us 
the power of carrying our resentments or our attach- 
ments beyond the grave. Whatever be the amount, 
immortal beings are its destined recipients; if small, 
it will afford their maintenance ; if large, the welfare 
of hundreds wiU hang upon its use or abuse. But 
at the hour of death, such an act is sad as well as 
solemn, and therefore w^ho can wonder that Catha- 
rine should weep ! 

<' My dear, dear child," said Mr. Allston, " there 
is no need for tears. I am not nearer the grave 

because I make my will ; and indeed I take shame 
36* 



426 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

to myself, alone and unprotected as you are, that I 
have not done so before. The neglect has arisen 
from an idle, perhaps a superstitious procrastination ; 
such as too often occasions delay in such matters 
until too late, or at least till approaching death 
renders affairs so hurried that they dannot be rightly 
apportioned. Leave us awhile, my good girl." 
Catharine kissed her father fondly, and left the room, 
followed by Frank, as the gentlemen entered, and 
bowed to her gravely and respectfully. She entered 
the drawing-room. Frank sat down near her, 
speaking gently and kindly. So he had ever done ; 
but of late, his gentleness had grown more tender, 
his kindness more warm, and Catharine's heart at 
once expanded with gratitude and deepened with 
sorrow, for she felt that this increased sympathy was 
elicited by her approaching desolation. Cummings 
proceeded to tell her that he must unavoidably leave 
them for a few days. The whole business of the 
firm devolved upon him, and a particular affair 
required his personal attendance. Catharine ex- 
pressed her deep regret at his departure, and asked 
if it was inevitable. Frank replied by detailing the 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 427 

particulars, to which Catharine listened with judg- 
ment and attention. For Mr. Allston, while he 
abhorred that family interference in the petty details 
of business, which is annoying to all concerned ; 
yet considered that a wife, or in her stead, children, 
should be confidentially advised of the general aspect 
of affairs. He looked upon it as their due ; as a pre- 
ventive of that thoughtless extravagance for which 
women are often, (in America, how often!) unjustly 
blamed. While he abhorred as a pest, that most 
monstrous of all civilization's offspring, a mercenary 
woman of the world, he felt that such confidence 
removed that helpless ignorance of worldly transac- 
tions, which, when real, is ruinous, and when 
assumed, contemptible. He felt too, what most 
men have known at some period of their lives, that 
a woman, reared as woman should be, as man's 
companion^ is often his safest counsellor. Her 
interest is one with his ; and if she possesses that 
love of truth and justice which ever springs from a 
real love of God, she will often, (as she is less in- 
volved than he in worldly strife and temptation,) be 
able to strengthen his tottering integrity, to quell his 



428 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

thirst for revenge, to confirm his self-denial, and to 
lessen his sacrifices by her cheerful readiness to 
share them. Such were the principles in which 
Catharine had been reared ; therefore she at once 
comprehended the necessity for "Frank's departure 
and made no objection. 

" When do you go ?" asked she. 

«« In an hour ;" he replied. " The gentlemen 
will take refreshment before they leave, and I will 
then bid your father adieu with as little form as 
possible. All agitation is injurious to him. Hark ! 
there is his bell. Shall we rejoin him .'"' 

<< Gh, Mr. Cummings, how thoughtful, how con- 
siderate you are ! My poor father will not live long 
enough to acknowledge all he owes ; and as for me, 
I never can repay your kindness." 

" I seek for no reward, Miss Allston, except one, 
which is as far beyond my hopes as it is above my 
deserts." Catharine looked in wonder at the 
speaker, f^ Forgive me, Miss Allston, if I have 
said more than I ought. Even a man like myself, 
accustomed to hourly mental disciphne, may, as 
you see, sometimes forget his habitual self-denial." 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 429 

Strange thoughts flitted through Catharine's mind 
at this extraordinary address ; a message from her 
father came most opportunely. 

After a few words, the party left, accompanied by 
Cummings. Catharine passed the remainder of the 
evening with her father alone. In the course of 
their conversation, which was often interrupted by 
his gradual exhaustion, Mr. Allston remarked : 
" Catharine, my mind is sorely perplexed respecting 
you. I know that you have a Father to watch 
over you when I am gone, but that certainty does 
not forbid me to look for an earthly guardian." 

<«Dear father, I have many friends, and in all 
worldly affairs, I cannot have a more zealous guar- 
dian than Mr. Cummings." 

" True, my dear girl, but when I am gone his 
friendship cannot be unreservedly yours. The 
world would draw an inference that would be to 
you most painful, if incorrect. Even now I feel 
assured that all our friends here regard Frank as 
my adopted son, as your future husband." 

The colour flushed in Catharine's face as she 
replied : " My dear father, do not let that distress 



430 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

you. Even my brief experience has taught me two 
lessons : one, that there is no point in which our 
friends are so little concerned, yet in which they 
interfere so much, as marriage ; the other, that if 
once satisfied of our own rectitude of thought and 
act, we are yet ever studious to gain the approval 
of all men, our lives will pass in ceaseless anxiety. 
Forgive me, my dear father, for speaking thus 
firmly to you. But you have so long treated me as 
a companion, an equal, that I feel justified in 
addressing you thus. Marriage is not a necessity of 
woman's existence, nor even of her happiness." 

'« Of your happiness, Catharine, it is. You are 
of a clinging, heart-seeking disposition ; you are 
alone'^in the world, and half your character will be 
undeveloped if you have no field for your affection; 
and, my child, your sphere of actual practical use- 
fulness would be greatly enlarged, had you a hus- 
band to share in your plans. 1 know your sincere 
attachment to poor Ferrers — do not sob so bitterly, 
my love, but listen to me. For many months 
Frank has told me of his love for you, which he 
had secretly cherished, long years past, and which 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 431 

even now he would not make known, if I thought 
it would molest your peace." 

"Oh, father, do not urge this, I beg of you!" 

" Tell me, Catharine, do you not believe Frank 
is worthy of your respect and esteem?" 

"Yes, yes, indeed I do." 

" Then why cannot a heart as young as yours 
look forward to love in future years? My dear 
child, nothing would make my death-bed so con- 
tented as the thought that you and Frank would be 
man and wife." 

Catharine kissed him affectionately, and then 
said : " Let us speak of this hereafter, father. 
Your strength and my self-command are alike un- 
equal to a further discussion : wait till to-morrow." 

The next day Mr. Allston was unable to leave 
his bed. Three, four days elapsed ; late one 
evening, Catharine followed the physician out of 
the room, and was told by him in the kindest and 
gentlest manner that his further visits would be 
useless. At that moment Frank Cummings entered. 
Agitated and wearied as Catharine then was, the 
recollection of her father's arguments, brought a 



432 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

crimson spot into her cheeks, and made her hands, 
nay, her whole frame tremble. Without appearing 
to notice her emotion, Frank took her hand and 
accosted her with affectionate respect. The physi- 
cian bade them adieu, and Catharine proceeded 
with Frank to her father's room. That night and 
the next day, found Mr. Allston still alive; but in 
the evjening he grew evidently worse, and bade 
Catharine leave him as he wished to speak to 
Frank. Catharine obeyed, and slowly wended 
her way to the drawing room, where she sank 
upon a sofa — "mind and body worn." In a 
little while Frank entered. "Miss Allston," said 
he, "I must say much in a few words. I learn 
from your father that you are aware of my 
long concealed attachment. I would not now 
venture to speak of it, but by his command ; 
although I have dared to hope that in a mind as 
well governed as yours, regret for the dead might 
be subdued by regard for the living. Do not give 
a hasty reply, I beseech you." 

"If I do not answer you as I should, Frank, it 
is from no lack of respect for you, believe me ; but 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 433 

it will be long, (if ever^) before J can feel towards 
you as I have done — toward — the — the dead. 
Could my life be devoted to your happiness, it would 
be only a return for your unceasing kindness. But 
give me time to consider you in this new light — to 
examine my own heart and soul : I shall then know 
if I can conscientiously fulfil a vow, which without 
such conviction, I never will promise to perform." 

The blood had fled, and returned, each instant, 
to Catharine's cheek, while she spoke, and strag- 
gling tears escaped from her eyes. Frank gazed 
upon her with devoted affection, and respectfully 
kissing her proffered hand, was about to reply, 
when they were hastily summoned to Mr. Allston's 
bedside. In the usual homely, but expressive 
phrase, Mr. Allston w^as "struck with death," and 
aware of his numbered moments, he briefly asked 
his child if Frank had spoken. 

" He has, dear father ; but give me, only give 
me time." 

" Time, Catharine ! In a few hours there will be 

no time for me! Respect for my memory, and the 

usages of the w^orld, will prevent your forming any 
37 



434 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

tie for many months ; and meanwhile, in a foreign 
country and alone, you will most need protection* 
Catharine, if you wish me to die in peace, let my 
closing breath bless your marriage with Frank!" 

Catharine's frame shook so violently that she 
could scarcely stand ; unable to articulate, she 
feebly bowed her head in answer to this solemn 
appeal, <<You consent, my child? God bless 
you!" He faltered forth, and then turned to his 
friend the physician who was present, and requested 
that the clergyman who had not yet left the house 
might be summoned. Mr. Allston's solicitor 
attended also, and Frank and Catharine were 
married. 

Late that night Mr. Allston died. The Grecian 
painter's veil should be drawn over such a scene. 
The heart that hath not known it, cannot appre- 
ciate its holy sadness ; and those who have received 
the last sigh of the beloved and honoured, know 
that the same grief, the same parting, the same 
prayer, the same trust in God, the same hope of 
re-union and immortality, give a resemblance to all 
such pictures. 

After that lonely pause which ever succeeds the 



I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 435 

funeral, when suspense and action are at an end, 
Catharine's first office was to fulfil what her innate 
delicacy regarded as a duty. She collected all 
those relics which she had so holily treasured — 
faded flowers, playful scraps of verse or apt quota- 
tation written by that hand she loved so well — the 
numerous fond and high-toned letters, whose fold- 
ings had been slit by repeated opening for re-peru- 
sal — the rich and tasteful gifts made richer far by 
association. She gathered them together and then 
paused awhile. A tearless sob rose in her throat 
as she opened a small locket and gazed upon a 
lock of hair which it contained. Long and 
earnestly she gazed; then closed the locket with 
trembling hands and placed it with the other 
relics. She folded them securely, then placed 
them in a secret drawer in her desk, which she 
firmly closed ; unconsciously she murmured half 
aloud, " Oh, merciful God, grant me strength even 
thus to put aside all engrossing memories and selfish 
regrets, and give me the power and the will to ful- 
fil in spirit and in truth the vow which I have 
sworn !" Such was her prayer, and it was answered. 



436 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 



PART 11. 

In the month of December, 1837, Mr. Cum- 
mings and his wife returned to Charleston. They 
were eagerly welcomed by their friends and 
acquaintances, and the business of the firm, (still 
continued,) detained them in the city for some time. 
By his will, (exclusive of certain legacies,) Mr. 
Allston had divided the whole of his vast fortune 
between Catharine and Frank. 

One fine morning in January 1838, a party of 
acquaintances called to entreat Mrs. Cummings 
w^ould accompany them to Sullivan's Island where 
the Indian chiefs were then confined. Harriet 
Preston had renewed her intimacy with Mrs. 
Cummings, having been once her school and play- , 
mate. Although a wife of three years' standing, 
neither the superintendence of an extensive house- 
hold, nor the education of children who worshipped 
her, had ever tamed her exuberant spirits, which 
as they flowed from a refined mind and warm heart. 



I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW, 437 

never offended even those who could not participate 
in her sallies. " I will take no denial, Mrs. Cum- 
mings," said she. " You must go with us ; Oseola 
is my hero. No other name has for years so thrilled 
our Southern hearts ; we dreaded him as a foe ; 
we pity him as a prisoner." 

" And why does he so interest you, Mrs. Preston ?" 
" There's a question !" cried the lively lady in a tone 
of assumed horror. "Oh, Mr. Cummings, what 
have you and other American husbands to answer 
for who keep their wives in foreign lands till they 
cease to remember home." 

"I deny the accusation entirely," smilingly 
rejoined Catharine. " I have not forgotten Oseola. 
He was the " bone and sinew" of the whole tribe 
in the Seminole war. It is the immediate interest 
you take in him which makes me ask the question." 

" Very well then, I will unfold. Attend. Con- 
densed History of the Florida War, by Harriet 
Preston. Bless me," she continued, "can I not 
add a few initials, — Yes: N. C, and C. U. S. 
Native of Charleston, and Citizen of the United 

States. If I were like some unostentatious country- 

37* 



438 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

men of mine, I should add daughter of an ex-Gov- 
ernor, and wife of a Member of Congress. There 
is a preamble fit for a title-seeker, and by the way 
the title contains as much as the volume. Now 
let me narrate the tale w^ith Gibbon-like dignity : 
The hero of the following history, the son of an 
Indian and a white, was at the time of the war 
about twenty-eight years of age. As the Indians 
prefer the counsels of the aged, the deference paid 
to him when so young, is a great proof of his supe- 
riority. He refused to sign the first treaty of emi- 
gration, and is said to have organized the murder 
of the most influential chief who had declared in 
its favour. His name became the rallying point 
and watchword of the tribes, and the untiring and 
energetic hostility which they maintained was 
chiefly owing to his activity and skill. His per- 
sonal enmity had been excited by the imprudent 
revenge of Governor Thompson, who punished 
Oseola for an ebullition of anger and disrespect by 
putting him in irons. Although speedily released, 
the Indian never forgave or forgot this indignity, 
but afterwards in cold blood shot the Governor 



I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 439 

through the open window of his house. With a 
view to put an end to this harassing war, General 
Jesup invited Oseola and other chiefs to conference 
and detained them as hostages, acting upon an illus- 
trious precedent. The Indian Napoleon was then 
taken to Sullivan's Island, where he still remains: 
the flame of conflict deprived of the master-breath 
that fanned and sustained it, is now flickering and 
will soon finally expire. It is also recorded of this 
savage warrior that he never permitted the scalping 
of a woman or a child. There, ladies, is an 
account compiled from the most authentic sources ; 
and now, if you love me, talk to me, that I may 
recover my breath, and sit in silence." 

iVfter thanking Mrs. Preston for her playfully 
told biography, the visitors chatted upon other 
topics, and on rising to go, Mrs. Preston said in 
reply to Mr. Cummings : " very well ; then you 
place your lady under my grave and matronly care ? 
I accept the trust ; I shall take her home to my 
house to dinner, and there despite of all engage- 
ments, you must join us. My husband and I are 
one according to the letter of the law, and I believe 



440 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

I may say, to the spirit too ; therefore accept the 
invitation from him and me. He is to meet us at 
the island." 

On a bright morning in January, the happy party 
set sail for Sullivan's Island, about nine o'clock* 
The sun was shining even then with intense heat, 
and truly welcome was the sea breeze that rippled the 
water of the harbour. About noon they reached the 
Island, and walked through the deep hot sand to 
the fort. After being challenged by a sentinel, they 
entered the court-yard, which was occupied by some 
Soldiers and a number of Indian women of every 
age variously employed, in pounding corn, boiling 
their food, repairing their clothes or adorning their 
persons, while the men lounged near in idleness. 

" Yonder old man basking in the sun, Mrs. 
Cummings," said Mr. Preston, "is called King 
Philip. Do you remark the ferocity of the 
features, rendered more harsh and savage by his 
lines of age ? He is an implacable enemy of the 
very name of white man, and is one of the most 
cruel of his race. This is Cloud, « The Great 
Fighter,' a good-natured, frank-featured man." 



I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 441 

They passed on farther ; and a fat, jolly-looking 
Indian, of very slovenly appearance, who was 
playing at cards, threw them down and advanced 
towards the party. " This," said Mr. Preston, 
" is Micanopy. He looks as if he thought more of 
feasting than fighting, does he not ? Yet he is one 
of their prominent warriors." 

<'But who," inquired Mrs. Cummings, "is 
yonder care-worn and depressed, but noble looking 
man, caressing those children so affectionately, as 
they chng round his knees?" 

"That is Coahadjo, a well known chief. A 
kind father, and therefore a merciful man, but an 
active warrior. Look at his rude leggings, Mrs. 
Cummings. They are secured by military buttons." 

" Yes, I perceive. The United States' army 
buttons, I suppose." 

" Precisely so ; they are spoils from the regi- 
mentals of the heroic Dade and his massacred fol- 
lowers." Catharine turned sick at heart at these 
words, but she advanced, and took the proffered 
hand of that chief, as she had done to all the others, 
and in their brief conversation, spoke kindly of his 



442 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

children, whom she patted on the head. The 
Indian's face brightened, as he told her, in imperfect 
English, how much his children loved him. The 
officer on duty, Lieut. Wharton, then approached, 
and informed his expectant friends that Oseola was 
coming, having consented to see them, although 
much indisposed. 

"I almost regret our selfish intrusion," said 
Catharine. 

"You need not, madam:" repHed the lieutenant. 
" The chiefs esteem these visits a compliment, and 
are too untutored to disguise their satisfaction. 
Here comes the 'Rising Sun.' " Oseola advanced 
from the building, attended by several officers, and 
Mrs. Cummings beheld a young Indian somewhat 
above the middle height dressed in the full costume 
of a chief. His figure was marked by agility rather 
than strength. His carriage was graceful, his limbs 
slender and well-formed, his feet small and beauti- 
fully shaped, as is characteristic of the Indians. 
His features were decidedly handsome, but delicate; 
his profile being remarkably fine. His eyes were 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 443 

full and piercing, but the expressive character of 
his face was marked by the thin, mobile nostril, 
and curling lip. 

"As a physiognomist," remarked Mr. Preston, 
««I should say he was a «good hater.' " 

They were introduced, and admired his salutation 
and his bearing. He had lost a child the day pre- 
vious, and the grief this had occasioned was the 
cause of his careless toilet and worn aspect; a 
circumstance which he earnestly desired the inter- 
preter to explain to the ladies. He likewise ac- 
knowledged his pleasure at their visit, by a smile 
which displayed teeth of brilliant whiteness. At 
the close of their brief interview, Mrs. Cummings 
remarked: <«I observed, that while the other 
Indians here, and indeed all those whom I have 
ever met, invariably, in shaking hands, lay their 
palms in mine as a mere form, Oseola grasped it 
and shook it heartily." 

" Yes, after our civilized fashion. It is a pecu- 
liarity of his." 

*« Does he not understand English ?" 



444 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

«'So he pretends; but it is generally believed 
that he understands and speaks it." 

"That is one of Oseola's wives," said Mrs. 
Preston; "she has just returned from condoling 
with the bereaved mother of her husband's child ;" 

"Come, ladies; our allotted time has expired! 
let us return home." 

So saying, they walked towards the gates, and 
unexpectedly beheld a truly touching picture ; 
placed, as it was, among the fierce emblems of 
war and barbarity, it was indeed holy. A young 
Indian mother, graceful alike in feature and in form, 
surrounded by friends and " medicine men" of her 
own nation, sat upon a stone near the gate watch- 
ing the death-struggles of an infant that lay on the 
ground before her. The child was evidently in 
convulsions, but the mother never moved nor spoke. 
With her hands clasped upon her knees, her eyes 
fixed on the poor little one before her, in that 
crowd of clamorous strangers, she had eyes and 
thoughts but for one. As the visitors passed they 
saw her wo, and unconsciously respected it. Their 
voices sunk to a whisper, and their pace slackened ; 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 445 

and their adieus to the officers were quietly and 
even sadly uttered.* 

When they re-entered the boat, the scene they 
had just witnessed became of course the general 
topic. Mrs. Preston playfully, but earnestly repri- 
manded one of the party for having transgressed the 
order of the day, by alluding to the late battles in 
presence of the chiefs, 'f Certain words or names," 
said she, " excite them fearfully, even though they 
understand but little English. Did you observe 
the terrible sneer on Oseola's face, when you so 
thoughtlessly spoke to my husband of Dade's 
massacre ?" 

<« What a sanguinary contest that was," said 
Mr. Preston to Mrs. Cumminojs, '^ Did it take 
place before you left America ?" 

* These are the detailed facts of my visit to Sullivan's Island 
in 1838. Eight days after that visit, Oseola died, of quinsy 
sore throat, (having rejected all offers of medical attendance from 
any, except his own nation). It is generally believed that the 
repinings of his proud spirit tended to hasten his end far more 
than even bodily suffering. All the details of the Florida war 
and of " Dade's massacre" mentioned in this tale, are historically 
true. 

38 



446 THE MARRIAGE YOV*'. 

" No ; a few days after 1 set sail," replied 
Catharine, gravely. 

'«Poor Ferrers was in that battle," said a gen- 
tleman. 

*'Yes," replied a young lady. "How very 
handsome he must have been formerly." 

«<Who? Ferrers!" exclaimed Mr. Preston. 
" You may indeed say so. I don't know which I 
admire most, his person or his character. His 
features are fine still, in spite of his dreadful 
wounds. God bless me, Mrs. Cummings, what's 
the matter? You are fainting." 

<' No, no," gasped Catharine, as she hung half 
over the side of the boat, clinging to the gunwale, 
and with a shaking finger pointing to something on 
the water ; her blinded sight could not distinguish 
the object, but even at that moment of intense feel- 
ing, she strove to maintain her presence of mind. 

" What is it?" exclaimed several voices. 

"The fan!" cried the young lady who had 
spoken before. " Mrs. Cummings' beautiful feather 
fan!" 

'« We will rescue it," exclaimed the gentlemen. 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 447 

"No, no," said Catharine. "Don't alter the 
course of the boat : it will materially retard our 
return." 

<' How beautifully," exclaimed one of the party, 
" the waves carry it along ! One might imagine it 
was a wounded bird, fluttering on the water." 
Conjectures as to its ultimate destiny w^ere then 
hazarded, and the accident accomplished Catha- 
rine's wish, and effectually turned the current of 
conversation. The party returned and dined at Mr. 
Preston's. 

At night, after having reached home, Catharine 
said with her usual candour and decision : " Frank, 
to my great surprise I have learned to-day that 
Lieutenant Ferrers is still living." 

" Yes ; he is in this city. I saw him to-day 
standing at the door of Jones's Hotel. He did not 
recognize me as I w^as riding by." 

" How very strange ! How remarkable that the 
report of his death was never contradicted to us! 
How could he have escaped !" 

"Why not make the inquiry? Mrs. Preston 
can no doubt inform you." 



448 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

' "If you approve of my doing so, Frank, I will 
inquire most thankfully." 

''Your course of conduct is always strictly 
correct," said Frank, in a scarcely perceptible tone 
of sarcasm, and left the room. 

Catharine felt that she could not comprehend her 
husband. His habitual caution, and apparent 
weighing of each word he uttered, — habits not laid 
aside even in the declaration of his love, or their 
first days of wedded life, repelled the candour and 
openness of her disposition : she blamed herself 
for her dissatisfaction, thinking that she required 
too much ; and that she was unworthy the regard 
of so good a man if she censured what was per- 
haps a mere peculiarity of temperament. 

A few days afterwards, the news of Oseola's 
death afforded an opportunity of introducing the 
inquiry without effort, and Catharine then learned 
that Ferrers had indeed fallen at the first fire, so 
severely wounded as to be unable to move or 
speak. When he thoroughly recovered conscious- 
ness, he felt that some hand was rudely removing 
the dead bodies, under a heap of which he was 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 449 

partly overwhelmed. He was about to claim 
assistance, when as he looked up, he beheld the 
face of a negro turned partly away from him ; 
conjecturing he was one of the Indian's slaves, 
Ferrers remained perfectly still, stealthily witnessing 
the wanton mutilation of the corpses near him, by 
the negro and his companions, who spurned Ferrers 
with their feet, exclaiming, with an oath, that he 
was quite dead, and providentially passing him by. 
When all was still Ferrers crawled into the neigh- 
bouring underwood, after having clumsily bound 
up his wounds, and in a few days made his way 
half starved and emaciated '•o the camp, having 
subsisted on the berries and wild herbs which he 
found on the road. By avoiding the main route, 
he had succeeded in evading the observation of 
savages. His arrival at the camp was followed by 
delirium, and weeks of fever and prostrated strength. 
His recovery was coeval with his promotion, but 
his health was even now so materially impaired, 
that it seemed doubtful whether he could ever again 
resume his profession. Such was Mrs. Preston's 
account. 

38* 



450 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

While stepping into her carriage to return home . 
that morning, Catharine encountered Ferrers him- 
self; their eyes met, and she controlled herself 
sufficiently to bow simultaneously with his own 
reserved and lofty salute. She entered the carriage, 
and after giving the order to return home, she sunk 
back in the seat, rejoicing that she had time to 
conquer an involuntary agitation, which, if observed, 
she would have considered an offence to her hus- 
band, a humiliation to herself. Dearly as she had 
loved Ferrers, she had studied to conquer even her 
regret, and most sincerely valued and esteemed 
her husband ; but she would have been super- 
human, had she not felt a host of associations 
trampling down the barriers of time and space, and 
the surges of memory arising and disturbing in her 
soul the calm stream of present existence. 

Some weeks elapsed during which nothing mate- 
rial occurred: Mr. and Mrs. Cummings prepared 
to remove to their permanent home, and their friends 
engaged them in an almost unceasing round of 
farewell gaieties. A day or two previous to their 
departure, while Catharine was receiving morning 



I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 451 

visitors, a card was brought in : Captain Ferrers. 
Catharine after a moment's pause, desired the ser- 
vant to shew him in. Ferrers entered, paid his 
respects to Catharine, and conversed with her 
guests upon indifferent subjects. One by one the 
visitors withdrew, and Catharine continued the 
various topics after Ferrers and she were alone. A 
pause however soon ensued, when Ferrers rose to 
take his leave, and said, with a gravity amounting 
to sternness : " Mrs. Cummings, an unasked visit 
from a stranger may appear a liberty, but as I 
wished to see you upon a matter of business, I have 
ventured the intrusion of my presence." Catharine 
bowed and motioned him to resume his seat: he did 
so. <■(■ Permit me," he continued, " to restore to you 
a parcel which ought before this to have been placed 
in your possession, and which I should have re- 
turned before, had I known your address." 

" I know of nothing," said Catharine, " except 
some letters of mine, to which I presume you 
refer." 

<■<■ I do so. They are all enclosed here," replied 
he, drawing from his pocket a parcel, and placing 



452 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

it respectfully in her hands. " The miniature, 
which is likewise your property, is there also. As 
you will find it fractured and the case much battered, 
I ought to explain the cause. The miniature," 
he paused, and then resumed, <' probably saved my 
life by averting and spending a bullet which struck 
me in the action upon the Ouithlacoochie." An 
involuntary ejaculation escaped Catharine's lips. 
Ferrers continued with equal gravity, but more 
gentleness of tone : " The preservation was doubly 
endeared to me by the means which proved my 
safeguard. For in days when I w^as young enough 
to indulge in romantic theories, I conceived it 
symbolical of the guardianship which a pure and 
permanent affection exerts over the heart." 

Catharine might well feel agitated at such an 
allusion, but though her colour varied, she spoke 
firmly : <« I thank you for the delicacy of your con- 
duct, Captain Ferrers, and will to-day return to you 
your correspondence which remains carefully laid 
aside. It is due however, to you, and to my own 
self-respect, that I should add, had I known you 
were still living, (for which I am truly thankful,) I 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 453 

should certainly have sent these memorials to you 
previous to my marriage," 

"Still living! Who could have reported my 
death?" 

" It was generally announced when the news 
arrived of Major Dade's command being massa- 
cred," said Catharine with some effort, " nor was 
it ever contradicted, although my late dear father 
and myself made every inquiry by letter. It was 
no more than our duty so to do." 

<' Mrs. Cummings cannot surely intend a satire. 
The newspapers every where announced my escape, 
and even had Mr. Allston's illness prevented your 
access to them, my own letters could not " 

"Your letters!" ejaculated Catharine. "Did 
youthen write?" 

"Good God! Catharine!" exclaimed Ferrers, 
starting, " Is it possible you never received letter 
after letter? I first sent a brief note," he continued 
eagerly, "dictated to a friend, while I still lay 
wounded and in pain. I then dispatched many 
successive letters, each growing longer as my 
strength returned, each containing the outpourings 



454 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 



of my heartj at first accounting for your silence by 
the miscarriage of mails, until the natural result of 
indignant affection, shame at my own weakness, 
bade me cease writing altogether. Did you never 
receive all these?" 

Catharine had also risen, and though she remained 
erect, the emotion of her frame shook the table to 
which she clung, as she breathlessly exclaimed, 
"Not one! Not one!" 

With all the energy of outraged affection, Ferrers 
replied : « There is treachery in this, Catharine, 
not chance. Has then the happiness of my whole 
life been blasted by an enemy ^ Was it my death 
and not your changed affection that made you 
withdraw your faith .'' Catharine, did you not cease 
to love me?" And as bespoke, he impetuously 
grasped her hand. With an intensity of feeling 
too great for outward sign of agitation, Catharine 
drew her cold trembling hand from his, and said 
briefly : 

" That question is unavailing now ; the past is 
past." 

"You were faithful, Catharine, constant, true! 



1 



T»HE MARRIAGE VOW. 455 

The curses of a man whose life is a wreck, cling 
to " 

" No ! no !" Catharine almost screamed forth as 
she caught the outstretched arm of Ferrers, who 
seemed wrought up to a frenzy. <' No, James : 
whoever be the author of the deceit, leave him to 
God." 

" Are you not lost to me, Catharine ?" 

«« Hush James, hush ! Such language must not 
pass between us now. You are relieved from a 
belief, which I deem the most painful in the world, 
the most paralyzing to all energy, hope, or happi- 
ness, — a belief in the unworthiness of the object of 
your honorable affection. Let this subject be for 
ever -at an end. Your self-respect and mine, the 
duty I owe my husband, the regard" she added 
firmly, "which I bear to him as his wife, forbid the 
indulgence of discussion or regret." 

The energy of her words gave energy to her 
frame ; and the exertion of great moral resolution 
on her part, produced a corresponding calmness 
and energy in the spectator. Ferrers mastered his 
agitation, and replied : " Catharine, you are just 



456 THE MARRIAGE VOW, 

and true as you have ever been. I will not offend 
your sense of rectitude by uttering one word more ; 
although it is a sacrifice whose extent you cannot 
know unless you could read all that is now passing 
in my heart. I will obey, and leave you." So 
saying he withdrew, murmuring in low tones of 
firmness not to be mistaken; ««But whoever has 
so wronged us both, wo be unto hira !" 

Catharine stood in silence until she heard the 
street door close after him ; when as the large tears 
gathered in her eyes, and rolled slowly down her 
cheeks, she unconsciously whispered : "If my heart 
too dearly worshipped an earthly idol, I have been 
bitterly punished ; but oh ! merciful Father," she 
groaned forth in uncontrollable anguish, " spare 
me this superadded misery — relieve me from the 
possibility of belief that the author of this fraud is 
he whom I have sworn to love and honour!" 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 457 



PART THIRD. 



A round of visits prevented Catharine from 
speaking to her husband until the next evening, 
when as they were left alone together, she suddenly 
remarked : «' Captain Ferrers called yesterday, 
Frank, to return some letters of mine — and to 
receive his own. I may as well return them at 
once ; they have remained sealed in my desk since 
my father''s death." So saying, she rang the bell, 
and desired the servant to bring her desk from her 
own room; when it came, 'Catharine seated herself 
at the table where her husband was reading the 
newspaper ; she unlocked her desk, took out the 
package, and directed the servant to take it, in- 
quiring of Mr. Cummings Captain Ferrers' address. 
He gave it, and the messenger w^as dispatched. 
For awhile she vainly attempted to maintain a 
conversation, but was answered only by mono- 
syllables, as Frank sat gazing into the fire. At 
last, as she expressed herself warmly respecting 

some act of magnanimity performed by a friend, 
39 



458 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 



Mr. Cummings politely satirized her enthusiasm as 
being beyond his humble powers of appreciation, 
remarking it would be better understood by such 
exalted minds as that of Ferrers. 

« My dear Frank," replied Catharine, «' Captain 
Ferrers was as highly esteemed by you as by any 
of his friends ; he has never forfeited that esteem, 
and though he is now^ but a distant acquaintance, 
his former intimacy with you and myself, should 
prevent our making his name a topic of discussion. 
It was from respect to you that I gave the servant 
the parcel in your presence ; for I do not wish the 
possibility of misconstruction." 

''Indeed! and was this your only interview with 
Captain Ferrers?" coldly inquired Frank. 

" I met him some weeks ago, but we were not 
near enough to speak." 

"I wonder you did not name the circumstance." 

" Our continued engagements excluded any 
opportunity of my speaking to you, and until 
yesterday I had of late foro;otten the incident." 

" Indeed ? It is somewhat strange that the 
meeting caused no deeper impression." 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 459 

'« Frank, I do not deserve the sarcasm you have 
just uttered so bitterly. You know I always speak 
the truth." 

<■<■ Far be it from me to be guilty of the ill-breed- 
ing of questioning your veracity," he added in the 
same quiet significant tone, and resumed the perusal 
of the paper. A reply was rising to Catharine's 
lips, but she had habituated herself to that most 
important, yet most difficult duty, — forbearance and 
self-control in trifles, — and she remained silent. 
Many and painful were the thoughts that then 
travelled through her mind. The caution and cold 
reserve which had ever characterized her husband, 
had of late augmented. The indifference of his 
manner to her, she also felt most keenly : he seemed 
to regard her as a visitor whose presence was a 
necessity, not a pleasure. While her conversation 
or remarks were daily made the topic of indirect 
and bitter sarcasm, his demeanour and expressions 
were so scrupulously well-bred that no opportunity 
could occur for a remonstrance. There are many 
modes practised of making home uncomfortable, 
which vary according to the dispositions of the 



460 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

tormentors, but none are more irritating than that 
just named to a frank and generous mind. Another 
obstacle to domestic happiness, was the fact that 
although Catharine respected her husband, there 
were no points of character in which their tastes 
could assimilate ; there was indeed no sympathy 
between them. And although the word is often 
ridiculed, (and with reason, since it is frequently- 
desecrated to the meanest, most absurd, and even 
sinful use,) it is in its pure and true sense the 
strongest bond in all intimate domestic associations, 
since it will make amends for all those defects 
which daily intercourse betrays even in the worthiest 
dispositions. 

After a time, Frank rose, and making some 
casual reference to their approaching departure, 
left the room. 

They returned to their country residence; the 
welcome of their friends, and daily consultation 
respecting the improvements of the estate and its 
dependents prevented Catharine from feeling con- 
tinually the increasing estrangement of Frank's 
conduct. After a time, Ferrers also came to visit 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 461 

this, his native village, and met Mr. and Mrs. 
Cummings repeatedly at the houses of mutual 
friends. He likewise gladly availed himself of 
Frank's desire for a renewal of their intimacy. He 
made no effort to disguise, (even had his tempera- 
ment been such as to render the task easy,) the 
happiness he derived from Mrs. Cummings' society. 
There was, perhaps unconsciously to himself, an 
animation, a devotion in his manner when address- 
ing her, far beyond his demeanour to other valued 
female friends. Such conduct could not fail to 
contrast itself in Catharine's mind, with the wtII- 
bred neglect of her husband ; but she repelled such 
meditations. She steadfastly occupied herself in 
every duty of her station, in concurring w^ith and 
furthering, (as far as his want of confidence would 
permit,) her husband's views in the arrangement of 
the estate, in relieving distress by pecuniary aid, and 
in giving sympathy and advice where they w^ere more 
needed than gold. She enlarged as much as possi- 
ble her sphere of utility, avoiding reflections upon 
her own sorrow^s, by dwelling upon the require- 
ments of the world around her. Frank was the 
39* 



462 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

greater part of each day absent, as he said, engaged 
in amendments of the mode of conducting the estate, 
which the long absence of the owners had tended 
to deteriorate. The visits of Ferrers were frequent, 
and often made on the plea of business to consult 
Mr. or Mrs. Cummings respecting his adjacent 
plantation. Frank's repeated and prolonged ab- 
sences from home had long surprised Catharine, 
€ven in Charleston, but they now became more 
frequent still. And by many of those trifling 
circumstances, which, isolated, are nothing, but 
which combined, form evidence incontrovertible, 
however indirectly conveyed, Catharine became 
convinced that the meretricious attractions of 
another woman had tended to increase her hus- 
band's indifference to herself into positive aversion. 
His encouragement of Ferrers' visits surprised her 
much, and her life was daily harassed by the 
stinging sarcasm which had become a habit. So 
passed more than a year of Catharine's life- -a life 
unsatisfactory as regards happiness — a life of self- 
control, utility, and endurance. She was not a heroine 
of romance, nor a passionless perfection ; she was a 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 463 

woman of strong feelings and many failings: but she 
possessed strict truth, sincere humility, firm faith in 
God, and daily practical dependence upon Him. 
She had no faith in that irresistible strength of 
inclination which is believed to be beyond control, 
nor in that, so-called, greatness of mind which 
makes some women believe that home and its 
duties are a sphere too narrow for their capacities : 
she believed that our greatest victory is the con- 
quest of self, our most important field of action, the 
fulfilment of the quiet ofiSces belonging to the 
station wherein Providence has cast us. Her life 
was not passed without mental struggles, but by. 
habitual reference to God's protection, and appeals 
for His support, she learned that valuable lesson — 
to avoid temptation. Had she been blessed with 
children the task would have been less difficult ; 
near and dear ties w^ould have aflforded occupa- 
tion for her heart, as w^ell as safeguards for her 
principles, although in real life they do not always 
prove so. 

One memorable day, Frank had been absent in 
the morning, and returned with several gentlemen 



464 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

to dinner. The meal was a jovial one, and the 
guests were those w^ho loved w^ine far more than 
conversation. After a brief visit to the drawing- 
room, they took their departure. Frank escorted 
them to the gate, and then sent back for his horse, 
assenting to their request that he would accompany 
them to the hotel in the adjacent town, whence they 
were to depart by steamboat the next morning ; 
having declined Frank's invitation to sleep at his 
house, (the invariable offer of southern hospitality.) 
At the hotel other friends joined them, and the 
result w^as a late supper. The w^ar having become 
a topic of conversation, Ferrers' name w^as men- 
tioned and accompanied by terms of warmest 
eulogy. From a wish to conceal his annoyance at 
the subject, combined with the convivial example 
of others, Frank unconsciously exceeded his habitu- 
ally cautious limits in the indulgences of the table, 
and partook enough to excite and throw him off his 
guard, without otherwise materially affecting him. 
He returned home about daylight ; the ride, (at- 
tended by his servant,) not being long enough to 
afford time for cool reflection. He found Catha- 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 



465 



rine waiting for him, and his first expression was 
one of anger at her not having retired to rest. She 
replied that she had felt anxious for his return ; as 
the road was out of repair and the night extremely 
dark. A sneer at her affectation of wife-like solici- 
tude was his only comment, but Catharine, seeing 
his flushed and excited manner, wisely forbore a 
reply. After awhile Frank arrested her departure 
from the room by asking if Ferrers had been there. 

Catharine answered, '<No; he rarely calls in 
your absence." 

«« Exquisite propriety !" muttered Frank. << I 
have been pestered with his praises again to-night : 
the man seems born to haunt me. What brings 
him creeping here daily like a hypocrite ?" 

«' I grieve as much as you, Frank, that he has 
renewed his visits, but you yourself invited him." 

<' I did, because I had a curious desire to study 
his character and yours. He comes to see you, 
madam, you !" he exclaimed with violence. " And 
why ? To revive old memories and institute com- 
parison between himself and me." 



466' THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

<' I believe such a thought is ahke unjust to you, 
Frank, and to him." 

^i Indeed! Has he found out that you believed 
him dead ? Has he told you that he wrote letter 
upon letter ?" 

" He has, he has ;" repeated Catharine, trembling 
alike at this outbreak, and at the approaching con- 
firmation of her fears. Frank burst into a bitter 
laugh. 

«'But do you know y)hy those letters never 
reached you? I will tell you, madam." And his 
voice sunk to its habitual tone, yet expressed 
concentrated malice. «' Because from the hour w^e 
left America I determined you should be my w^ife. 
I detained every newspaper that alluded to his 
escape. I opened and re-sealed every letter 
addressed to you and your father, and destroyed 
any that contained a reference to Ferrers. I inter- 
cepted your inquiries in like manner, and destroyed 
all Ferrers' letters to you. And do you think this 
was no sacrifice ? Do you think I had none of 
those ideas of conscience and of honour which you 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 467 

value above all ? do you think I had no bitter strug- 
gles with my 'prided I acted thus — not because I 
loved you, for your pertinacious constancy quelled 
such a feeling — but because I had resolved to be 
your father's heir ; he had promised me a liberal 
bequest, in any event, but I felt assured that were 
you ray affianced wife, he would divide his enor- 
mous wealth between us, and I gained my end. My 
indifference to you soon widened into dislike. 
The Roman punishment of binding a living body 
to a dead one is the type of our uncongenial mar- 
riage. You have found it so, Catharine, have you 
not?" 

In a tone of absolute despair, Catharine faltered 
forth, " You might have spared me this !" 

" No : I wish you at last to know me without 
disguise. I have no fear of driving you to any 
imprudent act. The selfish apathy and want of 
feeling which you dignify with the names of virtuz 
and principle, relieve me of all fear. I only wish 
you at last to understand the nature of ray feelings 
towardsyou. I am weary of hints." So saying he left 
her, horror-stricken at what she had heard. There 



468 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

would have been some alleviation had her character 
been appreciated ; but the most acute of all suffer- 
ing is to find that one's high resolution and self- 
control is attributed to incapacity to feel. 

With cold politeness Catharine and her husband 
still lived on. On that memorable night alone had 
he ever forgotten his habitual reserve. He still 
encouraged the visits of Ferrers, whose attentions 
became daily more devoted. At times the horrible 
thought would cross Catharine's mind that her 
husband washed to drive her to some desperate or 
at least imprudent act, which might justify him, in 
the world's eye, in separating from her. As this 
thought was daily rendered more probable by cir- 
cumstances, Catharine felt how narrow was the path 
she had to tread ; and as Ferrers and her husband 
w^ere repeatedly presented to her in dangerous 
contrast, she gradually became more reserved in 
her manner; and once or twice excused herself 
when Ferrers called. 

Some days after this occurred, she received the 
following note : 

«< Why do you refuse to see me ? Why do you 



i i 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 



469 



deny me the chief happiness of my life? You 

know my respectful admiration too well to fear I 

would intrude upon you unwarrantably. Your 

society, (which, but for fraud, I should have had a 

permanent right to claim,) can alone reconcile me 

to a life which would be worthless if not devoted 

to your service. 

« Ferrers." 

A small crimson spot arose in Catharine's cheeks 

as she, unwitnessed, read this letter. <'He is 

mad!" she mentallyexclaimed. " Rapt in a world 

of his own, he dreams away existence, and plays 

like a child, upon the verge of a precipice. Prudery 

itself could not censure the tenor of this letter, yet 

the act of sending it is one which a wife — above all 

—a deceived and unloved wife must not admit." 

Her resolution was at once taken. Passing into 

the adjoining room, she inquired of the many 

menials loitering around, (as is the custom in 

Southern households,) for the domestic who brought 

this note. Ferrers' confidential attendant, (who had 

served under him in the army,) was shewn into the 

room. « There is no need," said Catharine calmly, 
40 



470 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

"for my writing a reply to Captain Ferrers' note. 
Please to give him my compliments and say that I 
regret Mr. Cummings is not at home ; and that I 
am obliged by the Captain's kind inquiries after my 
health. I am now quite well." The man retired 
respectfully. 

In the afternoon Ferrers called and saw Mr. and 
Mrs. Cummings. Pleading the necessity of writing 
letters, Frank left them after a time ; and no sooner 
was he gone, than Ferrers said : "^Catharine, even 
at the risk of your displeasure, I must speak. Why 
have you restrained the usual frankness of your 
manner towards me ? Why have you framed such 
frivolous excuses to avoid seeing me ? In what have 
I offended ?" 

"In nothing. You are mistaken." 

"No;" he replied sadly. "Your manner, — 
your words towards me, have been my anxious 
study too long for me to misinterpret them. Your 
society is my only aim and object : your approval 
and counsel, my only hope and stay." 

"You place too a high a value on my judgment. 
My path and yours lie wide apart." 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 471 

<« Oh say not so!" He exclaimed, earnestly. <«By 
depriving me of yourself, you destroy all my future 
prospects. Honour me with your friendship and 
there is no future lot. I am not capable of striving 
to attain. Withhold that hfe-spring, and I continue 
a useless, hopeless dreamer." 

<« James," said Catharine, while the colour went 
and came each moment in her cheeks. "A wife 
can hold such friendship but with owe." 

«< Yes, if that one be worthy ; but if he be — — ." 

«■ I have no time to day, Captain Ferrers," she 
answered playfully, "to discuss philosophy or logic." 

<« You wilfully misunderstand me, Catharine. Of 
my past love, I will not offend you by speaking. 
But suffer me to be your devoted friend — the asso- 
ciate, the companion, another should be, and is not. 
Let me see in you my monitress, my guide to honour, 
ambition and exertion." 

"An address so worded, disarms the indignation 
it would otherwise excite. I believe the strength 
of your feelings blinds you to their extent and charac- 
ter. Such a conversation is derogatory to -." 

<« Derogatory ! Catharine ! I ask for your pure 



472 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

friendship. Reverencing you as I do, do you 
imagine I could ever cease to respect you.^" 

"No, James. I believe no one can cease to re- 
spect a wife until she ceases to respect herself. 
The arguments you use have been used by hun- 
dreds before. The same flimsy doctrine is ever set 
forth by those who fear not to take a fire in their 
hands, reckless of its burning influence. James, 
there is a chastity"of the soul^ without which no wife 
can respect herself. Let us not wilfully dwell in 
self-deception. The more important my presence 
or my influence maybe to you, the more essential is 
it that it should cease. Your agitation at this 
moment convinces me of this truth, James ; as I 
know your just and honest nature, I can appeal to 
you as I would to no other living man. If you 
persist in your visits here I must refuse to see you. 
I appeal therefore — not to your love, that would be 
sinful ; not to your generosity, that would be degra- 
ding to me. But as one rational and immortal being 
to another, I appeal to your own keen sense of 
right and wrong whether our acquaintance should 
not cease." 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 473 

« Catharine," cried Ferrers, in extreme agitation, 
" you tremble, — you weep !" 

« I am no stoic. I cannot control physical weak- 
ness: it implies no lack of moral strength," she 
answered with unconscious dignity. 

<« Catharine, you are unchanged. Dear Catha- 
rine, you love me still !" 

«< Hush, James ! Let me not hear such words 
again. Leave me some faith in the existence 
of virtue and honour upon earth ; that belief is my 
greatest consolation! James, leave me that, I 
beseech you." Unable to conceal her emotion she 
sunk into a chair, hiding her face with one hand, 
while with the other she motioned him to begone. 

"Catharine," cried Ferrers, "why do not all 
women like you exert their influence to ennoble 
those who adore them ? Wave me not away so 
impatiently Catharine, I will leave you. My pre- 
sence shall neither endanger your pure reputation, 
nor harass your care-sown life. But not even 
your command can prevent my loving you devo- 
tedly, as the exile loves that land to which he 

knows he never can return." So saying, he clasped 
40* 



474 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

her outstretched hand in his — and pressed it passion- 
ately to his heart and to his lips. What a torrent 
of memories and associations, of heart-seated affec- 
tion, then poured through the hearts of each ! But 
even then, Catharine turned her streaming eyes 
upon Ferrers, and withdrew her hand from his, 
tremblingly, but with decision. He attempted to 
speak; but in action, she forbade him. Again he 
took her hand, but at once she drew it from his 
grasp, and rose from her chair. Her lips moved as 
if in farewell, but no sound escaped from them, and 
with a mournful courage she left the room. 

When she returned some time after, she found 
that the handkerchief, in which she had buried her 
face, and dried her tears, and w^hich had fallen from 
her as she rose to go, was no longer to be found. 

Captain Ferrers the next day paid his round of 
farewell visits, and took leave of Frank and his wife. 
******* 

Poetic justice would dictate that Catharine's 
blameless, duteous life would in time have so influ- 
enced her husband as to lead him to acknowledge 
his injustice and his errors, and strive to efface them 



THE MARRIAGE VOW. 475 

by years of affection : failing in this result, poetic 
justice would have removed him from this earth, 
and made Catharine, after her term of widowhood, 
the wife of her early love. But poetic justice is 
rarely to be found in real life. 

In about three years. Captain Ferrers died: 
Catharine and her husband still live on. He still 
writhes under the marriage bond, which his own 
bad heart alone has rendered irksome or detestable. 
She still finds in her career of usefulness, in the 
resignation and discipline of her own soul, the 
employment and content denied to her in the ties 
of wife and mother. 

After the "literary club" had made their comments upon 
Jane's narrative, Anna exclaimed : " Well, we have all redeemed 
our pledges honestly ; now Alice, let us hear your story." Alice 
smiled and replied : " I plead guilty : I have never once thought 
of our compact since we parted. But I have had very reason- 
able excuses for my seeming neglect : care and sickness at home." 

" And last, not least, Mrs. Harvey," rejoined Jane, " you have 
had that important event, marriage, to interfere with our weighty 
agreement." 

" I suppose then we must admit your excuses," remarked 
Emma. 

« No, no !" eagerly cried Anna. " I will not hear of them 



476 THE MARRIAGE VOW. 

unless Mrs. Harvey makes the only atonement in her power, by 
relating some little appropriate tale at once. She ought to set us 
an example, and we must not suffer her to be the only delinquent. 
Come, Alice, you must ' all your pilgrimage dilate.' " 

" Impossible ! I know of nothing, and have no skill in im- 
promptu." 

" I will take no denial. Young ladies," cried Anna, turning 
to Emma and Jane, " second my appeal." 

They did so, most eagerly. In vain did Alice remonstrate — in 
vain did she point to the sun, whose beams, darting down through 
the foliage, betokened that the day had reached its prime — in 
vain did she use playfully or half seriously, every argument 
likely to influence in her own favour. The meny tyrants would 
take no denial. 

After a pause of a few minutes, Alice remarked : " If then I 
must make a virtue of necessity, I will give you a brief narra- 
tion, and the haste with which it is framed must excuse its 
defects : I will call it— 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 

And as a laconic summary of its moral, I will give as my motto — - 
" Time is man's better angel." 

Rebecca Warren, at the age of twenty, had 
all the thoughtfulness and experience which care for 
others bestows. An invalid mother, and a little 
sister, a helpless, but amiable cripple, had from 
childhood required her attention. The death of her 
father, who had been engaged in mercantile affairs, 
occurred at a period when the details of his busi- 
.ness were in a confused and unprofitable condition. 
Rebecca was blest by Providence with a mind, 
feminine in its refinement, masculine in its strength. 

Her mother's dependent state, reversing the order 
of nature, had compelled Rebecca habitually to act 
and think for herself. And on her father's death, 
she at once saw the strait in which the family stood. 
Fortunately she possessed a confidential friend in 



478 FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 

her father's legal adviser : he immediately discerned 
Rebecca's maturity of character and principle, and 
communicated to her all details, and co-operated 
with her in a mode that soon enabled her to unravel 
the tangled thread of her pecuniary affairs. 

Rigid economy was however necessary in the 
management of their small income; especially as 
two of the recipients were so feeble as to require a 
variety of comforts and even luxuries which youth 
and health could easily have dispensed with. Mrs. 
Warren's ill health, which had for years been con- 
firmed, rendered her, almost unconsciously, fretful, 
and at times unreasonably exacting ; so that Rebecca 
was early accustomed to a patient forbearance, which 
her love for the sufferer made her practice without 
great effort. Thus passed some years of Rebecca's 
life until she reached the verge of womanhood. 
While youth and trustfulness expanded her heart 
and made it yearn for companionship, she became 
acquainted with Waller Caldwell, a young man in 
whom education had refined and embellished a 
remarkable intellect and brilliant imagination. All 
the romance and poetry which Rebecca's reflecting 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 



479 



life had fostered and hoarded, helped to adorn 
Walter's character with exaggerated charms. They 
loved each other dearly; but Walter had no capital 
in the business in which he was engaged, save per- 
severance and indomitable energy. Often, as he 
witnessed Rebecca's daily existence, joyless except 
from the consciousness of duties performed, he 
would urge her to fulfil her promise and marry him. 
But Rebecca felt that at home she had claims that 
could not be infringed upon. Walter at first looked 
forward to the time when his own exertions might 
achieve enough to improve the comforts of Mrs. 
Warren, as well as to provide an agreeable home 
for Rebecca. 

But as time wore on he was often impatient at 
the invalid's exactions, and discontented and prone 
to cavil at Rebecca's conduct or remarks. She saw 
this, and felt it was the natural, the excusable result, 
of ''hope deferred :" she even justified him in her 
own mind : but she felt that a change must come. 
She had a long conversation with Walter, wherein 
they earnesdy discussed the probabilities of their 
future lot. Prudence, common sense and filial 



480 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 



duty, alike combined to prove their marriage was 
then impossible, and with no little effort, Rebecca 
told Walter that in justice to him, she ought no 
longer to be a tie upon him. «<Go forth into the 
world, Walter," said she, «< think of me only as a 
dear sister. Extend your sphere of action without 
reference to me. Nothing less than a miraculous 
change of prospects, can render our union probable. 
Do not look forward to it therefore, unless as an 
incentive to perseverance. Should your love con- 
tinue, claim me hereafter ; should absence or cir- 
cumstances direct your affection elsewhere, no 
shadow of blame can fall upon you, no influence of 
mine can weigh upon you. Go forth, dear Walter, 
and prosper." Walter's remonstrances were kind 
and sincere ; Rebecca's tears were many. But she 
knew that she was doing her duty ; her love was 
devoid of selfishness, and she could not endure the 
thought of being a clog to her lover's progress, a 
blight upon his hopes. They parted, and Rebecca 
still lived, still endured, still loved, still hoped. 

Three years wore away. A relation died abroad, 
and left Rebecca an unexpected legacy. Then her 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 



481 



heart beat high with delight. The legacy, added to 
her own income, was enough to render her family 
entirely independent of any casualty in a husband's 
affairs. She often heard of Walter, from mutual 
acquaintances. He seemed to travel frequently, and 
his attention to business was most praiseworthy. 
There were some who condemned his love of money, 
his greediness for gain: Rebecca tried to think 
regard for her was his secret motive for acquiring 
wealth, but his silence and absence had lasted so 
long that she feared they were the result of indiffer- 
ence rather than of an almost excusable anger. 
They met by chance ; timidity and affection strove 
for mastery in Rebecca's manner. Walter accosted 
her with real indifference, and that long evening, 
which seemed so brief and merry to other guests, 
showed how the world's influence had tarnished the 
brightness of Walter's disposition. The keen 
glance, the compressed lips, the contracted brow, 
the earnest gesture, which attended his discussion 
of monetary concerns, gave evidence that « there 
he had garnered up his heart." He seated himself 

at the card-table, not as one who wishes to wile 
41 



48^ 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 



away an hour ; not as one who takes a pride in his 
own skill irrespective of gain : but with an intensity 
as to the calculations of the game, a cold concen- 
tration of his thoughts upon the profits, which are 
painful to witness in age, but in youth are absolutely 
revolting. A rash marriage which had recently 
occurred, formed one of the topics of conver- 
sation that night; and many were the comments 
made upon it. But as Rebecca sat at one end 
of the long supper-table, while Walter was far 
away at the other, the low tones of his cold voice 
vibrated upon her ears and on her heart, with keen 
distinctness amidst the merry gossip all around. 
"Is this the man whom I loved!" she mentally 
exclaimed, as she heard Walter satirize the folly of 
the newly married pair, and express his calm belief, 
that an early marriage, (unless a very wealthy one,) 
was destructive to the prospects of a «« rising young 
man," and an absurdity, which, unless insane, he 
never would commit. Others commented upon the 
subject in various terms, but Rebecca heard that 
voice alone. That night her pillow was wet with 
bitter tears : tears, whose bitterness arose not alone 



FIRST AND LA.ST LOVE. 483 

from blighted affection, but from that greater 
anguish, the discovery that the object beloved sinks 
immeasurably below the estimate formed of him. 
The scales fell from her mental vision : remarks of 
his, made in former years, trivial acts, too minute 
for any memory but that of a lover, rose up in her 
thoughts. They met again and again ; each inter- 
view convinced Rebecca that Walter had worn 
away his love for her in his daily strife and toil after 
worldly advancement. Many weeks and months 
. did she pass in sorrow ; hers was no girlish fancy, 
no silly romance. Rebecca had loved deeply and 
fondly, with all the fervour of a nature like hers. 
She had loved an ideal of worth, and nobleness, 
and honour, and finding in Walter's mind and ima- 
gination a fascinating charm, her heart had invested 
him with the merits of her ideal divinity. Such is 
too often woman's fatal error ; happy is she w^hen 
she discovers her mistake before it be too late. 
In spite of all her fortitude, in spite of herself, she 
<^ pined in thought." Her bloom and beauty faded 
prematurely ; she felt that the <«sap of hfe," as De 
Stael beautifully says, was gone forever. 



^84 FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 

But «<Time is man's better angel." Rebecca 
found after some years had passed, that she could 
love again. But now her heart assented to the 
judgment her mind first formed. She beheld an 
upright, manly, truthful character : if not blazing 
with the gems of imagination, yet bright with the 
soUd gold of worth. Generous in thought as in 
act, studious for the comfort of others, assiduous in 
attention to the invalid, gentle and forbearing under 
her complaints, compassionately affectionate to the 
little cripple, Mr. Atherton commanded Rebecca's 
respect and esteem. 

Alice paused a moment, her eyes glistening and her usually 
pale cheek flushed with emotion. She resumed : 

When at length Mr. Atherton's manly attentions 
fully declared his love, Rebecca felt as if a new 
world had opened to her view. Her heart thrilled 
with gratitude to Providence for the blessing thus 
offered, with love to him whom she could so truly 
honour. Yet fearful of giving a poor return for 
such devoted affection, unwilling to suffer even a 
tenacious memory to interfere with the marriage 
vow, she asked a brief time to commune with her 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 485 

own soul, a temporary absence to determine the 
strength and nature of her feelings. Mr. Atherton 
went away, but his affectionate letters almost atoned 
for his absence. After a time he returned and 
claimed his bride, "who now enjoys with her parent 
and sister such happiness as she never before 
knew\ She often now meets Walter, in whose face 
the lines of avarice and worldliness are stamped 
more deeply than the marks of age ; and w^hile she 
wishes him well, ceases not to thank God that she 
was spared the hard and joyless lot, that ever must 
fall to the wife of a selfish man. Blessed with a 
husband who makes each day a festival of the 
heart, she studies, proud and grateful as she is, to 
deserve his regard ; nor does even a memory of her 
First darken the sunshine of her Last Love. 

Alice paused : her manner was more agitated, more conscious, 
than the mere completion of her prescribed task could account 
for. The young ladies vied in thanks for her graceful compli- 
ance with their request, and at that moment rapid steps were 
heard approaching. " Mr. Harvey, I declare," exclaimed Jane. 

" Young ladies," said he, " what secret council have you been 

holding ] I have been sent in search of you. Dinner will be 

ready in less than an hour, and Mrs. Bladgely commands your 

return." 

41* 



486 FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 

" We had just closed our conclave," replied Emma. " But 
Mrs. Harvey has not fulfilled all her promise." 

" How so ■?" inquired Alice. 

" You have not contributed your quota of rhyme, as all the 
rest have done." 

" I have no talent for extempore," she answered. 

" What rhyme V asked Mr. Harvey. 

In a few words, Anna briefly sketched the compact and its 
fulfilment that morning. Mr. Harvey entered with good taste 
into the spirit of the plan ; and gazing fondly on his wife's smooth 
brow and flushing cheek, smiled significantly as he remarked' 
" Mrs. Harvey seems embarrassed at the call upon her invention ; 
therefore, young ladies, if you will accept me as her humble 
substitute, I will endeavour to furnish from memory a fitting con- 
tribution." 

The young ladies gratefully assented, and Mr. Harvey con- 
tinued : " I remember an anecdote once related to me of two 
betrothed lovers, one of whom during a brief absence in another 
land thus wrote to his mistress : ' When I read your kind letters, 
I feel as though a guardian angel periodically visited me, to 
cheer, and to protect :' and the lady returned the following reply :" 

" Thou say'st — my letters have the charm 

Of angels, unto thee : 
Such glowing praise might truth alarm, 

If false thy love could be. 

Yet with afiection's artless skill 

I'll prove thy praise sincere, 
And by that fond deception still 

Imagine thou art near. 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 487 

If angels, viewless spirits are, 

Of loved and parted friends, — 
Then, in these letters from afar, 

To thee my spirit wends : 

And thus — contracting time and space. 

My wishes to fulfil, — 
It smiles upon thy dwelling-place, 

And tries to cheer thee still. 

While 'neath its timid wing it bears 

Thoughts blended with thy name,— - 
Continuous, though voiceless prayers, 

And faith, 'mid change, the same. 

O ! could Tny spirit soar above, 

While I on earth remain,-^ 
From that high sphere where ' God is love/ ' 

This boon t'would seek to gain : 

That through thy life it might indeed 

Possess an angel's charm — 
Might aid thy soul in ev'ry need, 

And shelter thee from harm. 

Thus to thy heart my own replies, 

With purest hope serene: 
For while to thee my spirit flies, 

TJiine seeks me though unseen. 

Yes ! if I gaze on what thy pen 

Hath traced far o'er the sea, 
With eloquence thy spirit then, — 

Though silent, — speaks to me. 



488 FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 

So, like the twins of classic lore, 
In heart we're still allied, 

E'en while compelled, like them of yore, 
Long severed to abide. 



But far less sad our lot than theirs : 

For if, when life is past. 
Unheard should here have been our prayers, 

In heaven we'll meet at last. 

Yet Hope's sweet voice, in whispers dear, 
Murmurs, — (when trial's o'er) — 

That thou and I shall even here, 
United be once more. 

Then Life in music to its close, 

Will gently glide along, — 
Still breathing, till its last repose, 

To God one grateful song." 



The blush had deepened on Alice's cheek as Mr. Harvey con- 
cluded, and he drew her arm within one of his, and offered the other 
to Jane. As they walked towards the house, Emma whispered 
to Anna, on whose arm she leaned, — " What a handsome couple ! 
They remind me, although married, of an assertion I have read 
somewhere, ' that lovers are never so beautiful, as when they are 
in each other's presence.' " 

" I imagine," said Anna, " that those verses just quoted, were 
written by Rebecca Warren." 

"Then how should Mr. Harvey have learned them ?" inquired 
Emma.. 



FIRST AND LAST LOVE. 



489 



" No one more likely. Mr. Atherton and Eebecca are walking 
on before us." 

" Whol Alice and her husband 1 Why should you think so 1" 
asked Emma. 

" Hush !" said Anna, laying her finger on her lip. They 
had reached the lawn in front of the house, where many guests 
were lounging. That day passed, like the preceding ones, most 
happily ; and those girls, when long years had bestowed matronly 
dignity, often recalled to each other's memory when they met, the 
literary assemblage upon the flower-studded grass, and the re- 
corded struggles of 

THE HEiRT AND THE SOUL. 



Note. 

The object of this series of tales is set forth in the Introduction. 
They were written in pursuance of a plan which was to embrace 
some fact of actual and well-known occurrence, as well as a 
variety of rhymes, and were to have appeared in one of our best 
periodicals. The death of the lamented proprietor of the maga- 
zine prevented their publication. 



ERRATA. 

Page 163, for when poor Captain Smith read tchen Captain Smith. 

Page 185, for shells, read shells— 

Page 199, for twhart read thwart. 

Page 199, for worp read word. 

Page 203, for Volday is about to sIut/ Rolfe when Powhatan, read Volday 

is about to slay Rolfe, having disarmed him, when Powhatan. 
Page 207, for with white flag read with a white flag. 
Page 230, for Master Rolfe. read Master Rolfe ? 
Page 240, for where he goes to read where he goes. 
Page 443,, for lay their palms, read laid their palms. 



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